West
by Starsky's Strut
Summary: The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single car accident.
1. Chapter 1

All usual disclaimers apply, I don't own the rights, I don't get money, and this is for entertainment only. Please excuse any errors; they are entirely mine. As always, the medical portions of this story have been researched, but please remember that this is a work of fiction and therefore is not meant to be a medical dissertation.

This story was won by E-pony for the Hurricane Katrina Benefit Auction held last year by Wolfpup, hostess of the Bay City Library. All proceeds went to benefit the victims, both human and animal. Not only did Pony win this story, she has been very patient in waiting for me to write it as well as doing the beta work as well. Thank You Pony!

**West   
**By Starsky's Strut

"What are you doing here? This is all your fault!" Mrs. Elizabeth Hutchinson rounded on her son's friend. She took an agitated step in his direction. "Get out of here! You're not wanted!"

"Easy dear…" Richard Hutchinson gently grabbed his wife's arm and pulled her into an embrace. "Nurse, see that this man is removed." He pointedly glared at the distraught, curly haired detective.

"Please, I just want to see him… just for a minute." Starsky's dark-blue eyes pleaded with the couple. "Please? I haven't seen him since the accident –"

"The accident _you_ caused! The accident that left my son – my only son – like this…" Elizabeth's voice cracked as she spoke. She sobbed, then turned and buried her face in her husband's chest.

Richard wrapped his arms around his wife and looked over the top of her head at Starsky. "Fine! Take a good, long, hard look. See what you have done to my son. See what you have reduced him to. I hope you're happy with the results." His light-blue eyes were like chips of ice as he glared at the detective.

Starsky dipped his head and hobbled clumsily closer to the bed. He wasn't used to using crutches yet.

Elizabeth started to push out of her husband's arms. "**No**! I don't want him anywhere near my boy. Richard, don't let him near my boy –" She was cut off, as Richard once more pulled her to his chest.

"No, dear, let him go. Let him see what he has done to his '_best frien_d.'" He turned to the detective and sneered, "If this is what you do to your friends, I'd hate to see what you do to your enemies."

Starsky kept his eyes on the man in the bed in front of him, not even sparing a glance at his best friend's parents. It had been nearly two weeks since the accident. He didn't remember all of what had happened, but the accident report stated that he had hit some black ice, lost control of the vehicle and slammed into a tree. The passenger side – Hutch's side – had sustained the most serious damage… as had Hutch.

The detective swallowed hard. He had not been allowed to see his best friend, his partner, for the entire time Hutch had been in the hospital. So, he'd finally quit asking and simply made his way to his friend's room – crutches and all. After several thwarted attempts to enter, he had gotten into the private room that Hutch's parents had obtained for their son.

Now, he maneuvered his way to the head of the bed and looked down at Hutch. The bruises had faded to a sickly yellowish-green color; the swelling originally must have been significant, as the blond's face still had some residual puffiness, even after two weeks. Starsky carefully balanced himself on his crutches; then he placed the left one under his right arm, so he could reach out and touch his friend.

"No! Don't touch him! No!" Elizabeth wailed, as she tried to break Richard's hold. "**You **did this to him. You can't touch him anymore!" She whipped around to face her husband. "Richard, make him stop. I won't allow it!" She beat at his chest with her small hands.

"Calm down, dear, please!" Richard looked about the room. "We mustn't make a scene." He turned back to Starsky. "You are NOT permitted to touch my boy. Not now, not ever again. After today, you will not have access to him… period! I have a restraining order on you, and you are not permitted within 100 feet of Kenneth."

"**WHAT**!" Starsky gasped, feeling the blood drain from his face. He knew Hutch's parents blamed him for the accident and for the injuries Hutch had sustained. In fact, he blamed himself. The report stated that he had been driving too fast for the road conditions and had lost control after hitting the ice.

Certainly, he remembered driving the rental car from the Duluth airport; he and Hutch had been traveling to visit Hutch's parents for Christmas. Starsky also had a vague recollection of the conversation he and Hutch had been having before the accident. There were a few disjointed memories of riding in an ambulance, and then the next thing he clearly remembered was waking up in the hospital with a broken left leg, badly bruised ribs and a concussion.

Starsky looked away from Hutch's parents and back to his friend. It _was_ his fault Hutch was in that bed. His partner was always bitching at him for driving too fast. Guilt flooded the brunet, and he nearly choked on the knot in his throat. But it would be okay; somehow, he would make it right again.

Starsky clenched his left hand into a fist, as it itched to touch his friend's face, and he gripped the two crutches hard with his right. So what if he couldn't touch Hutch now. He would sneak back later when the Hutchinsons were gone – restraining order or no!

"Hutch?" he called softly.

"His _name_ is Kenneth!" Elizabeth hissed venomously. "Don't call him 'Hutch.' That's not his name."

Starsky closed his eyes and fought for control. He wasn't going to let Elizabeth ruin his first visit with his friend. "Hutch? I'm here, partner. C'mon, look at me… _please_?"

The blond head twitched on the pillow.

"That's right, partner. I'm here; c'mon… look at me."

Hutch's head twitched again and shifted. The movements were jerky and barely controlled.

Starsky frowned in confusion. "Hutch?"

Once again, his partner's head started jerking, until the pillow stopped it from turning further to the right.

"Hey! There you are, partner! I've… been…" Starsky slowly stumbled to a verbal stop. His fingers crawled unconsciously across the bed toward his friend. His eyes were locked on Hutch's face, and as he watched, he noticed that the light-blue eyes were unfocused and uncomprehending. The blond head continued to twitch on the pillow, reminding him of a baby's jerky, uncontrolled movements.

"Hutch?" Starsky stared for a long moment. There was no recognition in his friend's eyes. None. And as he continued to watch Hutch's face, he saw the blond begin to drool. Saliva pooled in the corner of his mouth, before running down one cheek and onto the pillow.

"Hutch…" Starsky felt as if someone had punched him hard in the stomach.

Richard glided to the detective's side and began to speak quietly, "This is what you've done to my son… my only _boy_. You have turned a bright, intelligent man into an infant." He paused for emphasis. "The doctors say that he should recover _physically_, but only with a great deal of therapy. And mentally… he will remain a child. There is some _chance_ that eventually he may be potty-trained and able to speak a few words, but that is the most we can ever hope for."

"I hope you're satisfied with your accomplishment. You have turned my son into a baby – an infant – who must be watched for the rest of his life. Now, get out! Out of this room and out of our lives… forever! Don't come back. You are** not** welcome here." The last few sentences were a whispered hiss in the brunet's ear.

Tears filled Starsky's eyes, clouding his vision. "I… i-it was an accident. I-I d-didn't mean for this to happen. I'm s-sorry; I'm _so_ sorry."

Elizabeth finally shrugged off her husband's restraining arms and slapped the detective hard across the face. Starsky lost his precarious balance and would have fallen if an orderly hadn't caught him and eased him into a wheelchair. Starsky's cheek burned where the woman had slapped him. If he hadn't already been tearing up, the sting of that slap would have made him do so.

Elizabeth loomed over the detective as he sat in the wheelchair; to Starsky's eyes, she was only a tear-distorted blur. "'Sorry' isn't going to repair the damage you've done," the distraught woman snarled coldly, "not to him… and not to our lives. Get out!"

Starsky merely nodded, too distraught to do anything else. The orderly wheeled him out of the room and down the hall to the elevators. After he was taken back to his room and helped into bed, Starsky turned to his good side and stared at the wall. Tears ran down his cheeks and onto the pillow beneath his head.

XXXX

Three floors up, the blond stared silently at the closed door, tears trailing slowly down his face.

XXXX

_Enough of this crap!_ Starsky wiped his eyes with his knuckles. "They" couldn't keep him from Hutch. It just wasn't going to happen. They could try. But it wasn't going to happen. He would make every attempt to see his partner, and then he would devote himself to helping Hutch recover.

Starsky thought back to the night of the accident and tried to recall everything that had happened. He had already gone over it again and again in his mind. And he was determined to go over it yet one more time. He had to be missing something.

The flight had been normal, if a little late due to the snowfall. He had bitched to Hutch about that. There was a reason he had moved to Bay City, and a lot of it had to do with snow and cold. He hated both of those four letter words.

Hutch had invited him to come along to visit his parents for Christmas, and Starsky had gone for two reasons: one, because Hutch had asked, and two, because his friend had needed him to be there. His partner only rarely talked about his family. Apart from the occasional phone call to or from home and the still-rarer card or letter, Hutch did not seem to communicate with his parents at all. But then, from out of the blue, they had asked him to come home for the holidays.

The _why_ of it would have to wait.

Starsky recalled retrieving their luggage and getting the rental car. The clerk at the rental car counter had tossed the keys at the partners, and Starsky had been the one to catch them.

"_I'm drivin'"_

"_You don't know the way."_

"So?" 

"_Right. That's never stopped you before, has it?"_

"_Nope."_

Their conversation had continued along those lines, as Starsky had maneuvered the rental car along the snow-covered road. At one point, he had seen a road sign with a Native American name on it. _"Hey, Hutch! What do you think my Indian name would be? Huh?"_

The blond head had slowly turned in his direction, and Hutch had fixed him with a considering look. Then, one blond eyebrow had slowly risen. _"I don't know. How about 'Runs with Scissors'?"_

"'_Runs with Scissors,' huh? Well, yours would be –"_

"Watch the road!" 

"_No, I was thinking more along the lines of –"_

"_Starsky, look out!"_

He remembered the car beginning to slide, but as hard as he tried, he couldn't recall anything after that… at least not until the moment he had awakened in the ambulance. And those memories were disjointed and confused.

Further clarity had come in the hospital, as his broken leg was being set and his ribs taped. It was then that he'd been given the news that his partner was worse off than he was. But, until today, that news had just been words.

Today, clarity had met reality when he'd been confronted with Hutch's angry parents. That, coupled with the full impact of seeing Hutch for the first time since the accident, was what made the news finally hit him: His partner had suffered severe brain damage as a result of the accident.

The uncoordinated movements, the drooling, the uncomprehending stare – only now did Starsky fully realize that he might never be able to enjoy Hutch's company again. The white room blurred, and a large knot seemed to rise in his throat.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

Hi all,

Thanks for the kind reviews. Sorry if this chapter is a little heavy on the medical stuff and a little boring. Oh and any resemblance to real persons or places is unintentional.

Again, thanks to Pony for the excellent beta work. Any errors found are mine.

As always a special thanks to the Usual Suspects. I couldn't do this without you guys.

**Chapter 2**

_Three days later._

Starsky moved down the hall, carefully swinging his cast-encased leg forward after planting his crutches. He surreptitiously watched for nurses and orderlies. They always seemed to have a sixth sense whenever he was about to make yet another attempt to visit his partner. But that did not stop him. He would try until he succeeded; that's all there was to it.

For the first time in three days, Starsky made it all the way to Hutch's room and he quietly slipped in. He waited until the door swung silently shut and scanned it for his partner's parents. He would be in deep trouble if they –or anyone one else- caught him in there. He had no doubt in his mind that they would press charges if they found him. Restraining order be damned, he was going to see his friend. He listened quietly for a few moments, waiting to make sure he was alone.

The room was dark, and the curtain was drawn around the bed. He moved silently forward and eased the curtain back. "Hey, sleepyhead," he spoke softly by way of greeting.

Moving even closer to the bed, he gently rubbed the blanket-covered arm nearest to him. A happy sigh escaped him. It felt good to touch his friend again. He had needed this contact for days now. A stranger in this city, Starsky had had no visitors to ease his stress and help pass the time until he could go home.

He had spoken to Dobey a few minutes each day, but that was not enough. The Hutchinson family was as tight-lipped with Dobey as they had been with him. They had simply told the captain that Hutch's life as a police officer was over.

Starsky desperately needed to talk to Hutch, so they could get this mess straightened out. The nurses refused to give him any information about his partner, and getting to Hutch's floor, let alone his room, was on par with breaking into Fort Knox.

He had to see for himself, without interruption or confrontation, if Hutch was in as bad of condition as it had looked. It just couldn't be. It was unthinkable.

The figure in the bed twitched.

Starsky continued to stoke Hutch's arm, he pitched his voice low and soft. "Hey look, babe, I don't have much time. I just wanted to –"

"Masher! Get out of here… you, you rapist, you!" The person in the bed sat bolt upright, let out an ear-shattering scream, and started whacking the surprised detective with a pillow.

"What the –? Who are you?" Starsky stammered, as he fended off the attack.

"Nurse! Help! I'm being accosted!" The older woman who now occupied Hutch's bed shrieked. She grabbed the call button and pushed for all she was worth.

Starsky staggered backward quickly. Trying to evade more blows from the pillow, he lost one of his crutches and nearly fell. Just as he caught his balance, the door banged open behind him. The lights were flicked on; a stark glare filled the room.

"What the devil is going on here?" barked the first nurse to come through the door.

"I just wanted to see my friend!"

"That masher was feeling me up!"

Starsky and the lady spoke at the same time. Then, the woman threw her pillow at him.

"Just a second, Mrs. Murphy. Jill, see to Mrs. Murphy, will you?" The black nurse grabbed Starsky firmly by the elbow and moved him toward the door. Stooping briefly, she snagged the fallen crutch and handed it back to him.

Once they were out of the room, Nurse Melissa, with whom Starsky had had earlier run-ins, put her hands on her hips and gave him a dirty look. "Explain yourself."

"Where's my partner?" Starsky shot her an equally dirty look.

"He is no longer at this hospital." There was a hint of compassion in her eyes as she spoke.

"**What**! Where is he?" The brunet could feel the blood running from his face.

"I don't know. And if I did know, I couldn't tell you, anyway; it's confidential." The nurse broke eye contact, turned on her heel, and darted back into what was now Mrs. Murphy's room.

Starsky stared at the closed wooden door for several seconds before he adjusted the crutches under his arms and headed back to his room. "I'll find you, Hutch. I_ will_ find you."

XXXX

_Earlier that day._

"Dr. Lottridge, you are one of the top men in your field. You came highly recommended; that's why I've asked you to look at my son. And all you can tell me is that he will not improve?" Richard Hutchinson turned away to stare out the window of the doctor's office at the winter-white world below. He rested his hands on the window frame and leaned on them.

"No, Mr. Hutchinson, that's not what I said. I said that he _will_ improve **_some_**, but only with intensive therapy. He will need extensive physical therapy, as well as speech therapy, and I have this theory –"

"How extensive?" Elizabeth Hutchinson quietly interrupted, as she dabbed carefully at her weepy eyes and discreetly wiped her dripping nose. She sat stiffly upright in one of the chairs, her legs off to her right and crossed at the ankles. She was the very picture of a genteel, but distraught, woman.

"It could take years. And, even so, he will likely need 'round-the-clock care for the rest of his life." Dr. Robert Lottridge adjusted his pristine lab coat before making eye contact with Elizabeth. "You'll have to make many changes in your home to accommodate him. He will need a great deal of hands-on care and will be prone to outbursts." He shifted his eyes from one parent to the other and took note of the tension in the husband's posture.

Richard kept his back to his wife and the doctor, his eyes still fixed on the winter scenery beyond the pane of glass.

"'Outbursts'? What type of _outbursts_?" Elizabeth queried.

"Emotional, in the beginning, and physical, once he regains some control over his body. This is a frequent occurrence for people with head injuries. If he recovers to the point that I hope he can, he will be frustrated by his inability to communicate and move. He'll be rather like a perpetual two-year-old."

Elizabeth dabbed at the corner of her eyes, trying not to smudge her mascara. "I'm sorry. Could you tell me again what is wrong with Kenneth?"

"He has sustained severe trauma to the head," Dr. Lottridge explained. "He injured the left side of his brain, which is the reason why he has some paralysis on his right side. I believe the paralysis to be temporary, but only time will tell."

"Wait a minute, the right side of his head was injured, how can the left side of his brain be injured as well?" Elizabeth left off dabbing at her weepy eyes to stare at the doctor.

"Kenneth sustained a contra coup injury. That happens when –asin this case, a car accident- the victim's head hits something or decelerates rapidly. There is bruising to that portion of the brain, but the process isn't over yet, the brain can then smack in the opposite side of the skull, causing injury there as well. And given the region of his head that was injured and his verbal responses, or rather the lack of any, I believe he also has aphasia." The doctor handed her another tissue and tossed her used one away. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I know this is difficult to hear."

Elizabeth shoved her fist to her mouth and her eyes brimmed with tears as she nodded in response to the doctor's words, too upset at that moment to speak.

"You mentioned that earlier. Aphasia – from the Greek: _a_, meaning 'not,' and _phanai_, 'to speak.'" Richard spoke over his shoulder, still not taking his eyes off the outdoors.

Dr. Lottridge raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed.

"My husband has studied law as well as running his Great Lakes shipping company," Elizabeth said by way of explanation, her voice was strained by her emotions. "But what about all the strides they say you people are making in medicine? Can't you just give Kenneth a shot or something?" She proceeded to ball up the paper tissue nervously as she explained for her husband.

The doctor sadly shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hutchinson. There is no 'shot,' no miracle cure, for brain injuries. And this is even truer for injuries such as the one your son has suffered. It simply takes time – a great deal of it – for any hope of progress. Time and work – a lot of work. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"H-he's my son; of course, I want to care for him… You said he'd be like a baby." There was an odd mixture of hope and concern in her voice.

"I cannot stress this enough; he will be like a baby, an _impulsive,_ _temperamental, _175-pound baby! What aphasia does is impair a person's ability to comprehend spoken and sometimes written words. It can also hinder or even prevent the production of speech. With Kenneth's level of damage, I suspect he has a combination of all of these symptoms. I beg you to reconsider putting him into a full-time nursing facility, especially for the first few months. I can recommend several –"

"He's my son. No child of mine is going to be sent to a _nursing home_. I'll take care of him." Elizabeth stood up, as if to show her determination, she carefully adjusted her immaculate pant suit. She put her shoulders back and inclined her head as she looked at the doctor.

Lottridge's eyes moved again between the couple before resting on the wife's face. "You understand that he has global aphasia, the most severe form. He eventually will only be able to understand and produce a very few recognizable words and understand very little of what is said to him. He will not be able to read or write. His ability to control his movement is also severely impaired, as we discussed earlier. So he is like a baby with very limited control. He could easily hurt you without meaning to."

Elizabeth broke off eye contact, quietly considering those words for several seconds. Her gaze shifted back to meet the doctor's. "I don't care. I can do this." She gripped her purse tightly in both hands, knuckles whitening with her grip.

"The facility I am thinking of is _exclusive_ and very private. Kenneth would receive the very best care. But this is your decision. Either way, he will need to have a nurse stay with him, at least for the first few weeks. You'll need help caring for him, and you will need to learn how to provide what care he requires, as well." The doctor looked at Richard's stiff back. Not getting any response from the husband, the doctor turned again to the wife. "When did you want to start?"

She made direct eye contact. "Today."

"I'll contact the pharmacy and get his prescriptions filled, all right? I know a couple of nurses that would be perfect to assist you in his care." He clasped his hands over Elizabeth's and gave them a warm, comforting squeeze. He then dug into his lab coat. "Here is my card. Please call me if you need anything, anything at all."

"Certainly." Elizabeth took the card and put it in her purse.

XXXX

After the couple left, Lottridge sat down behind the desk to make a phone call. "Carla? This is Dr. Lottridge; I think I've found a job for you. Can you contact Stacy Sandburg and see if she is interested in some work, too? Good… I'll call you when I hear from my patient's parents… Yes, I'm sure about this… Great! I'll keep you posted." The doctor replaced the receiver and leaned back in his leather executive chair, resting his elbows on the padded arms. Steepling his fingers, he tapped his fingertips lightly together as he stared thoughtfully at the phone.

XXXX

Starsky had found out, through eavesdropping, that Hutch had been taken to his parents' estate to be cared for. With a cast on his leg, the detective knew he wouldn't be able to break in or dress up to sneak into the mansion. He would just have to bide his time and let his leg heal. The Hutchinsons were only doing what they thought was right for their son. He couldn't fault them for that.

With nothing holding him in Duluth, Starsky reluctantly made arrangements to go back to Bay City. He was discharged from the hospital and wheeled to the exit, where his cab was waiting for him.

After the short, silent drive to the airport, he paid the cabbie and then a porter to haul his few belongings to the check-in counter. It felt bizarre to be flying home without Hutch at his side. But it was a feeling he was going to have to get used to, at least for now.

Once he'd boarded the plane, Starsky settled in for the long, lonely flight home.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

Hi All,

Thanks so much for all the encouraging reviews and emails. I hope this chapter is worth the wait. Poor Pony (who has been my beta) has been struggling with eye problems and per doctor's orders, can no longer beta until her eyes heal. Kate CMT has offered to help me while Pony's eyes rest and heal. Heal soon Pony! And Thank you Kate!

**Chapter 3**

As he regained consciousness, Hutch found his world was a very disorientating and confusing place and he tried to figure out _who_ he was. It took a long time, at least, it felt like a long time, but he did recall that much.

After figuring out who he was, he focused on trying to make sense of the confusion that was happening around him and to him. He struggled to figure out _where_ he was. This too, seemed to take considerable time, but finally, his eyes and nose told him he was in a… a… the word escaped him. It was a place where hurt or sick people got better.

He chased the word around in his brain. There was a name for this place. The word evaded him. He tried again and again until his thoughts had become like a… a… slobbery, furry animal chasing its wagging thing, round and round. He chased the evasive word round and round in his head. There were words for those slobbery, furry things too. In his mind the blond could see the image of the creature and the place in his head. But the words themselves were gone.

Hutch knew these words… but _what_ were they? He knew them; they were there on the tip of his… his… He had to work to stick out the pink thing in his mouth, so he could see it… name it, that thing too had a name… and that word, like so many others, ran fearfully away from him. His words were gone. So very many of them were now gone. He head began to fiercely pound with the effort of finding the words, reluctantly, he forced himself to stop trying.

As he now often did, he lay staring blankly as things happened around him and to him. Over the next few days Hutch also noticed that his body didn't want to listen to him. And when it did, it took a great deal of effort to do anything. Moving was difficult, rather like swimming in thick, dirty, wet stuff. Moreover, his right side seemed affected more than his left.

Hutch also noticed was that people in this place talked too fast and in some strange foreign language that didn't sound like anything he'd ever heard before. Their words ran together and were a garbled mess. And things became even worse when more than one person spoke at a time, the input was just too great and it made him nausous. He wanted answers, but when he attempted to ask questions, nothing coherent came out of his mouth.

He had seen his… his… again the word evaded him. When he had been little, they had been there, younger versions of the people who were in the room with him now. His, strict, stern-faced male... the word wasn't there. Hutch's headache grew, so he didn't bother to look for the word.

The other one, crying female… light-blonde hair… his… his… again the word he wanted wasn't there… she burst into tears whenever she was near him. But he knew her. He tried to ask her what was wrong, but she would shove her… white cloth… in her face and turn away, with shoulders shaking.

Men and women in white flitted around him at different times of the day and night. They seemed to be continually popped in and out of his space as they babbled rapidly in their strange language. Time passed, and then he heard another voice. This one spoke quietly and slowly, so much so that he could almost understand what was being said to him. Curious, Hutch used much of his limited strength to turn his head to face the speaker.

For a long moment, the blond simply stared at that man with the dark curls and blue eyes. He gaped blankly at the face and watched the lips move and make words as he fought to understand. He struggled with his aching head and his vanished vocabulary. It was frightening to be missing so many words and maddening that things kept happening so fast.

Hutch could feel the liquid pool in his mouth and was powerless to wipe it away as it flowed out of the corner and over his bottom lip and down his face. Then, as always, everything quickly changed on him. There were some rapid movements, a loud, sharp sound and then the crying female was there, wiping his face, patting his aching head, and babbling, always babbling at him.

There was more loud, incoherent chattering between the crying female and the stern male. Hutch lost interest after Dark Curls left. He pulled into himself mentally, retreating as he closed block out outside stimulus. He began to ruminate on whom those dark curls belonged to.

The more he thought about it, the more he was certain he knew… Dark Curls. But the more he concentrated, the more his head began to pound. Finally, Hutch gave up, too tired to chase the word.

As sleep overpowered him, it came to him that he really did know the man with the dark curls. Hutch was elated. But then he recalled, with horror he had had… water from mouth… and that was when Dark Curls had backed away - hadn't even tried to touch him. The not trying seemed… wrong, somehow. Maybe Dark Curls didn't like to see… water from the mouth. He resolved that he would try harder the next time he woke up. Then perhaps, Dark Curls would stay near.

XXXX

When next he woke, Hutch found that there was too much going on around him. He couldn't even begin to make sense of any of it. He wanted everything to slow down-- to stop. All of the commotion was making him nauseous. But the action not only continued, but increased, until his thoughts spun and he head ached.

He lifted his head to try to get someone's attention as his stomach started to spin. He tried to roll to his side and curl up, but found he couldn't move. Hot soupy vomit surged up his throat and out of his mouth. Some of it flowed backwards and clogged his throat, causing the blond to choke, cough and retch violently.

Movement stopped and people clustered around him, reaching for him as his world faded to gray and then black.

XXXX

Some time much later, Hutch woke up slowly, taking in his surroundings. It was different then the hurt/sick-get-better place. He closed his eyes and slowly sniffed the air. The scent was familiar, as were the walls that surrounded him. He was… the word refused to reveal itself. He knew this place. Back when he was young, growing up… he had a… little young blonde, with long hair… hanging on him, laughing with him. It was his… his… Hutch gave up on the word for the little blonde. In this place was crying female, stern man, little long hair and him. Yes, he knew this place. Knew it very well.

"Badkkwi ad kw jdalkjfee j soes sd gtey."

Hutch slowly opened his eyes; facing him was a female in white.

"Dkd, spk avbdama?"

He stared hard at her mouth, attempting to make sense of the strange words. She seemed to be asking him something.

"Dkd, spk avdbama?"

Frustrated, Hutch shook his head, which made spots form in front of his eyes. He snapped his eyelids down and rode a wave of nausea. He startled at a touch to his hair and reopened his eyes.

"Badkkwi ad kw jdalkjfee j soes sd gtey." The female in white smiled. "Hds woyfkam."

She patted his arm and picked up something from a tray next to his… his… Another word was missing. Hutch didn't bother to look for it. Instead he looked at what she held. It was a long pointy, clear, plunger, push.

She raised it, flicked at it with a finger and pushed the plunger part. Some liquid squirted out the pointy part. "Pedeta dk m kale vxd."

Hutch pulled back, sinking deep into his pillow, staring at the long pointy thing, with the liquid running down. He eyes were glued to the sight of the object. He gritted his teeth and tried to tell her to stop. He could hear his own harsh and labored breathes as he struggled to speak, to say something –anything- to get her to stop.

"Pedeta dk m kale vxd." She rubbed something wet and cool on his arm, she smiled as she stuck the long pointy sharp part of the thing in the crook of his elbow.

Hutch flinched and tried to move, his breath came in panicked huffs as he felt it pierce his skin. With a mighty effort, his left arm obeyed him, flailed out and she was pushed back away from him. The push-plunge clattered to the floor. Success!

"HXZQW!" The female in white glared at him. "Nmx jz woika wdk dplu!" she dabbed at the stain on her white front. "Yoemx xcyzw, da pexd djekled."

Hutch had no clue what she said, but he really didn't like the sound of it, whatever it was.

XXXX

Starsky arrived at Bay City airport terminal and took a taxi home. He hadn't called Dobey or Huggy or any number of other friends of his to come and get him. He just wanted to be alone for a little while.

He knew Dobey, Huggy and the others would ask all kinds of questions, questions he simply didn't have the answers to. Nor did he feel up to dealing with the sympathetic looks –or all the rest of the crap they would say, or do, to try to make him feel better. There would be no "feeling better" this time. This whole tragic fiasco was his fault.

The brunet brooded all the way home. He paid the taxi driver and as the man sped away, Starsky realized he should have paid the man a little extra to haul his duffle up to his apartment. He looked at the retreating taillights and cursed at himself as turned to stare up at the stairs. Still awkward with his crutches, he knew it was gonna be a challenge to climb those steps while trying to tote his luggage. There seemed to be far more then he remembered. As he cautiously bumped and thumped up them, they seemed to be multiplying.

The strap of the duffle kept slipping off his shoulder and hitting his crutch. Which would cause him to slap his broken leg down on the riser to keep his balance. The pain would surge up his leg to the rest of his body only to be repeated on the next one. It was a vicious cycle. It sapped at his much diminished strength and upon gaining the top step he had a near death experience when his had nearly lost his balance, duffle, crutches and life. He flung himself forward and somehow managed to land on his duffle with his crutches at his sides, instead of all of them ending up at the bottom of the steps.

He lay there panting for several long moments before climbing to his feet. The brunet was too tired to try lift his bag, so he ended up using his crutches to alternately push the duffle and swing his broken leg. Push, swing. Push, swing. He slowly forced himself to his apartment door by shear willpower.

Starsky entered his place, flicked on the light, closed the door and locked it. He rested his forehead against the solid wood for a few minutes and panted. His lungs heaved and the sweat dripped off of him. His leg was aching now as badly as when he had broken it, the other leg burned with fatigue from the combination of the long flight, cab ride and climbing the Mount Everest of staircases.

When the exhausted detective finally caught his breath, he turned and faced the room. He was home. Only it didn't feel like home. Not anymore. He let out a heavy sigh, arranged his crutches under his arms and maneuvered his way over to his couch. After he sat, he heedlessly let the crutches drop to the floor with a clatter of sound. He left them there. Starsky stared without seeing the blackened screen of the turned-off television.

He thought back to the conversation he had had with Dobey while he was still in the Duluth hospital that he was on short-term disability for the next eight weeks, minimum. After which one of the departmental doctors would check his progress. Starsky knew the drill by heart and right now, he didn't care. He had to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for the reviews and emails. You guys are far too kind!  
Special Thanks to the Usual Suspects, I couldn't do this without your help and support ladies! _(HUGS!)_

Warnings: Some of the subject matter may be difficult for sensitive readers.

**Chapter 4**

After moping aimlessly around his apartment for a few days, Starsky phoned Doctor Ben Franklin -the same man who had seen him through Vic Belamy's poisoning. He had to get some information about Hutch and his condition.

He related what little information he had on Hutch's injuries and condition to Doctor Franklin. Franklin was more forthcoming than the doctors at Duluth Memorial had been. But Franklin wasn't very encouraging after he had heard what Hutch's signs and symptoms were. After relaying what the senior Hutchinson had told Starsky, there was a long pause on the phone from the doctor's end.

"_It sounds rather like global aphasia."_ Those words were followed by another long bit of silence from the doctor.

"What's that?" Starsky prompted the doctor, the quiet extended until he nearly screamed for the man to say something.

"_Global aphasia… it's the most severe form of aphasia. People who have it can only produce few recognizable words and understand very little or even no spoken words. Reading and writing is also beyond them. The global form usually occurs after a stroke and there have been cases of rapid, even miraculous improvement-"_

The brunet zeroed in on the last part of the doctor's speech. "Fantastic! That's great news Doc! That's such a relief to hear." He broke in, his tension flowing away from him in a tangible stream.

"_Detective Starsky, David…"_ There was a long pause on the phone before the doctor spoke again_. "He didn't have a stroke though, did he? The greater the brain damage, the more severe and lasting the disability. I'm sorry. From what you have told me, it sounds like it was significant. But without actually seeing your friend, I cannot diagnose or say anything with real certainty. There have been cases of miraculous recoveries. But again, I would temper any optimism with a large dose of reality." _

This time it was Franklin's turn to listen to silence on the phone as the words slowly sank into Starsky's brain. The meaning of those words, what they meant to him, what they meant for his partner. Those words drifted like the last brittle fall leaf, it swayed to and fro in the turbulence of his mind and landed like a cannon ball in his gut.

"_Detective?"_ The doctor prompted.

"Yeah?" Starsky was having difficulty assimilating the information provided by Doctor Franklin. It left him feeling disconnected and floating, rather the same way he felt after having a couple of cold tablets. The good doctor wasn't giving him much to hope for Hutch ever getting back what he had lost.

"_Could you tell me the name of the physician that made this diagnosis?" _

"Yeah… sorry… ummm… Doctor Robert Lottridge."

"I've heard of him. He's one of the very best in this country. He even has his own care and research facility near Duluth."

"Lottridge is that good?" The detective wasn't sure if he should be happy or upset by this news. If Lottridge was the best, there was no one else to take Hutch to for a second opinion.

"From what I've read, yes. His specialty is researching brain injuries and aphasia. He has proposed several new techniques that are quite innovative. I just read an article in 'Lancet' about one of his newer theories."

"Thanks Doc, thanks for the information." Starsky knew he did not sound at all grateful though. He didn't have the energy to even try right now.

"_Any time Detective, any time… look, if you have any more questions, feel free to call me, all right?"_

"Sure… sure I will. Thanks again, Doc." Starsky carefully set the receiver on the cradle of the phone and stared at it, still attempting to absorb all of the information the doctor had given him. His new companion, guilt, resettled itself on his shoulders and weighed heavily on him. He continued to stare at the phone until it began to blur.

XXXX

For Hutch, life had become a blur. It took him a long time before he could tell that days were passing. The view through his big window gave him a still life that his muddled brain had plenty of time to absorb. Dark to light and dark again. He as able to pick out a routine of events that occurred, day in, day out. He found a small measure of comfort in the unchanging schedule. The activity in his room was often too much, so he would turn his gaze to the calming, slow shifting view outside his window.

As more time went by, he became aware that people were doing things for him that he had once been able to do for himself and he grew weary of his new limitations. He had regained most of the feeling in his right arm and right leg, but he wasn't able to control them. It took a great deal of concentration and effort to move his fingers and toes.

What irritated him more than his nearly useless arm and leg was his inability to talk. When he tried, nothing came out. His frustration over his inability to communicate grew daily. And right now, his bladder was full and he didn't want to wet himself again, like… like… some scrunched-face, squalling… that word evaded him and Hutch pounded his left fist on the bed in irritation.

"Bxdoaw djaow jheg geks?" Crying female walked to his side. "Jwoh kaex."

He could tell she was asking questions from the way her voice raised slightly on the last words of each sentence. He glared at her and pounded the bed again, trying to force words out of his mouth. He could feel his jaw and lips opening and closing, but nothing came out. He tried harder.

"Ypxc eyak nez jploicke." She put her hand on his forehead and brushed back his bangs.

Hutch jerked his head away from her. He didn't want to be fussed over. He didn't want the tube stuck back in his privates to drain his bladder that way. Nor did he want be forced to use the diaper he was now wearing. He had to make her understand what he wanted.

"Jmka, zyea ajsoded knmaed?"

He tried to speak again, he gestured. She shook her head and fretfully ran her fingers through his hair. He twitched his head away from her caress.

"Hezeakdj? Wodyaej ljksfg?" She made a sour, pinched face then lifted the sheet and felt the area around his butt.

Hutch could feel his face heat up as he blushed and he batted at her hands. He simply hated it when she checked to see if he had wet or messed. He wasn't a crying ... squalling… he slammed his fist down hard as the word refused to show itself. His rage grew and his breath hissed angrily out from behind his clenched teeth.

"Waeouda wdoez?"

He struggled mightily to speak, he failed. He felt the blood pulse in his veins. Pain erupted in his head and black spots danced before his eyes as his headache grew. He tried to push through the pain as his anger rapidly grew beyond his ability to control it. He flailed and pounded the bed with his left hand and left foot. He wanted to get out of bed before he wet himself. He kicked the bed covers to the floor. He moved to the side of the bed, but the rails prevented him from putting his legs over the side. He pulled himself up and tried to climb over the rails.

Crying female leaned over him and tried to push him back down. He swung at her; she was putting weight and pressure on his belly, which was increasing his urge to go.

"Hglz! Hglz! Atabucnkst! Bikta kdja aodja!" She hollered.

Hutch slammed his eyelids down at the pain her shouting was causing him, the throbbing in his head increased, it was pounding in time with his heartbeat. He kept flailing and kicking. He couldn't seem to stop himself now that he had started.

"Hglz! Hglz! Atabucnkst!"

The door of his room banged open. Hutch jerked about to see who was entering. When he saw it was one of the women in white that had entered, he saw red and his rage exploded. She was the one who kept sticking him with… with… pointy, sharp… No! No! NO! He didn't want her around, didn't want to be poked with the pointy, sharp push-plunge thing again. Not again! NO!

Crying female pushed hard on his belly, attempting to hold him down. He felt as if he would burst if she continued.

"Nhhhhhh!" He forced the sound out as he struggled, he knew he wouldn't be able to last much longer; he had to go right now. He shoved crying female away from him and threw his left leg over the railing. He was determined to get to the… the… Hutch gave up on the word. Woman in white joined crying female and they pushed him back into the bed. Crying female ended up splayed across his belly, using her small weight to hold him down. Woman in white ended up on his chest, holding down his left hand, since his right refused to obey him.

Hutch struggled to move, but his limited strength was fading fast. Then to his shame, he felt warm wetness flowing. He turned his head to his pillow and buried as much of his red-hot face in it as he could. The fight went out of him.

The two women babbled back and forth in their strange language, he tuned them out as best as he could, beyond humiliated. The woman in white grabbed a wide belt and buckled his left wrist into it and did the same with his right. Hutch was tied to the bed and forced to endure being cared for like a squalling, red faced… he closed his eyes and wished himself, far, far away as they cleaned him up once more.

XXXX

Richard Hutchinson was in his study when he heard the commotion; he knew the source and bolted for his son's room. By the time he got there, the commotion was over. He stood in the doorway and watched silently as his wife and the nurse cleaned up his son, removing the soiled sheet and adult diaper. The linens were changed and a fresh diaper was placed on his son.

When the bed was back in order, he finally approached. Elizabeth slumped into a nearby easy chair, clearly exhausted. "What happened?"

"Nothing. It was nothing… everything is fine now." She smiled up at him.

He took in her disheveled appearance, and it told him everything was _not_ fine. He let his expression tell her so.

"Richard… it was only this once. The doctor did say something like this could happen, we'll be more careful."

"What happened?" He repeated as he turned from his wife to the nurse. His eyes like blue laser beams locked onto her eyes, reading every nuance in her expression, as he would before the members in his boardroom.

She reddened under his disapproving scrutiny and broke off eye contact "I…I… I'm not sure. I just stepped out of the room for a moment-"

He cut her off. "You are not to leave his side." His quiet tone brooked no argument.

"I told her she could step out. She needs a break once in a while." Elizabeth chipped.

The senior Hutchinson let that response slide for now. He could always pick it up later. And he would, too. He peered at his wife's face; she had a red mark on her cheek. "How did that happen?" He cupped her chin and gently turned her head to get a full view of the red bruise that was blooming there. Her eyes darted unconsciously to her son's bed and back again. Richard saw it. "He did it?" he asked quietly.

"He didn't mean to, it was an accident. It won't happen again." Her hands fluttered fretfully like a butterfly with damaged wings.

He grabbed her hands and held them in his own. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"He didn't mean it. He doesn't know what he's doing."

Richard pulled her slowly to her feet "Go with the nurse, have her take care of that mark. I'll speak to you in a little while, all right?" He pushed her gently from behind, with a hand in the small of her back. The nurse nodded at him and they both left him in the room with Kenneth.

He stood with his back to the bed for a long time, before slowly turning around and walking over to his son. When he gained the side of the bed, he stood staring at the wall on the other side of it. It was so difficult to see his boy this way. Sure, they had had their differences, but he would never have wished this on Kenneth.

He looked down at his son, avoiding looking at his face Richard noticed the wide restraints on his boy's wrists. Kenneth must have been fighting hard for Elizabeth to have allowed them to be used. As Kenneth recovered from the accident and regained some of his strength, the threat of him having an 'outburst' - which was just another way of saying temper tantrum- increased. Doctor Lottridge had warned him as much. But for now he was letting Elizabeth play mother to their damaged son, something she had almost completely missed when Kenneth had been a baby.

It hadn't really been her fault that she had missed out on raising their son and daughter, not entirely. They both had been social butterflies, flitting to this party and that. All in the interest of making connections, building his network of friends, acquaintances and connections in the Corporate world in the shipping business and there was plenty of money to be made. But only with the proper connections.

Their children had been nearly completely raised by their nanny. He couldn't remember ever having changed a diaper in his life. He didn't think that Elizabeth had either, at least not until now. He gave a disgusted snort. Now she was getting the opportunity to do just that. She was trying to make up for lost time.

Richard rested his hands on the bed's railing and looked at the young man in the bed, though he studiously avoided looking at his son's face. He couldn't stand to see the blank expression he knew he would find there. The bright intelligence that had secretly made him very proud was now gone. Aside from the fading bruises and other healing injuries, Kenneth didn't look that much different now than he had before the accident. He shook his head, how fickle fate was.

He hadn't really had the chance to get to know his son. He backtracked a little. He hadn't made time. Richard quickly backed away from that line of self-critical thinking. He had done all he could and more to provide for his family. They lived in a beautiful estate, they had the very finest that money could buy. They belonged to all the right clubs and knew all the right people. Not only that, he was a success in his chosen field, like his father before him. He never understood why Kenneth hadn't been happy. He had opened doors to his son that had been closed to him when he had first started out.

There had been the escalating verbal battles. The emotional distance had only increased when Kenneth had told him he wanted to drop out of college to be a police officer. Richard never understood that. Why had his boy become a lowly police officer? He would never have his answer now.

The gap between them had become an ever-broadening chasm over proceeding years. And now… now… it was too late to build a bridge over that gorge, his child was gone. All that was left was this shell that looked like his son. Kenneth would never give him grandchildren and pass on the family name. His daughter Karen had shown no talent or interest in the shipping company and was now married to a promising young lawyer, a junior member of a good firm. The family business was doomed without a successor. This branch of the Hutchinson family tree was now severed.

He stared at the far wall at the pictures of Kenneth, first as a baby and he eyed each progressive photo, watching his son grow up all over again in those pictures. So much promise, so much potential, all of it wasted.

Richard slowly turned away from the bed without ever looking directly at the boy's face. He knew what he would see, that same dull, blank, uncomprehending expression he had seen back at the hospital. He just didn't have the strength to look at it again. It was like ripping the same scab off over and over. The wound was still too new and painful. Perhaps in a few days… He quietly walked out the door and closed it firmly behind him.

XXXX

Hutch looked up at his… stern-faced… it was too hard to think of the word for that man. His head pounded and he was exhausted from his struggles. He had watched as the man looked at him and waited for him to make eye contact. Stern faced never did. Hutch knew that look on his face though; he had seen it often enough in his youth. Surprisingly, that word did come to him. It was very clear in his mind, but he knew better then to try to speak it.

The word was disappointment.

It was a look he had frequently seen from stern faced man. Hutch turned his face away from the closed door.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

As always, massive thanks to the Usual Suspects, I could not continue to write this story without your help. (Hugs)

Warnings: Some disturbing imagery. Yep, it's another depressing chapter. Sorry!

**Chapter 5**

"Starsky?"

It had been several weeks since the accident, or ATA - After The Accident, as Dobey now identified that time. He watched as the dark haired detective hobbled into the kitchen. Starsky was now a pro at maneuvering around on crutches. Dobey stared across the room to the rack of plants that resided there. They were Hutch's plants. He had installed (with Huggy's help) several racks for Hutch's plants along with some UV lights, since Starsky didn't have a greenhouse. He and Huggy brought the plants over so Starsky would have something of Hutch's to care for. He wondered now if it had been the right thing to do.

David Starsky was in obvious pain. Mental pain. Dobey knew the agony of losing a partner. He and Elmo had been every bit as tight as Starsky and Hutch were… had been. But in Starsky's case, it might even be a little worse. Elmo had been murdered. There had been some form of closure for Dobey. He feared there would be no closure for Starsky. For not only was Hutch hurt while Starsky was driving, the young man was not legally permitted to see his friend again, because of a restraining order.

He and Huggy watched as the brunet methodically wiped down the counter top.

"Starsky," Dobey called, a little louder this time.

The man startled and looked over his shoulder. It was as if he had somehow forgotten that Dobey and Huggy had stopped by for a visit. "Yeah Cap?"

"The coffee…" Dobey let the words linger.

Starsky blinked quizzically at him. "Coffee?"

"Yes, coffee… You went into the kitchen to see if it was done." Dobey prompted his distracted detective. He exchanged a look with Huggy. The bar owner gave him a commiserating look.

"I'll get it." Huggy got up and went to the cupboard, retrieved three cups and the coffee pot with practiced ease. The thin bartender brought the multiple items into the living room and set them on the coffee table. Out of habit, he poured the brew into each cup.

Dobey watched as Starsky threw the towel over his shoulder, grabbed his crutches and moved back into the room. "Use the coasters or you're gonna leave rings on my table." The brunet grumbled as he sat down and shoved coasters over to Huggy and Dobey, putting one under his own cup as well. He took the kitchen towel off of his shoulder, reached over and wiped away the rings where the three cups had been. As though feeling the weight of their combined stare, Starsky looked up. "What?"

Huggy put up his hands and said nothing. He then busied himself by adding cream and sugar to his coffee.

The captain cleared his throat. "Starsky… everything checks out. The restraining order is legal." He looked down at his coffee cup, picked up a spoon and stirred the dark liquid, avoiding eye contact as he struggled to find the right words to tell his detective the rest of what he had to say.

"Well I didn't think Hutch's dad was joking when he told me that, Cap." Starsky sighed sarcastically "What about that other stuff you were gonna check on?" He glanced up at his superior.

Dobey pulled out his hanky and wiped his dampening brow "Hutch has been placed on long-term disability for now. That'll run out after about eight to ten months."

"What about his apartment? His rent is due in one week. I paid off last month with the donations from the Department. Be sure to thank everyone for me, okay? It means a lot to me and Hutch... I can use my own money for next month and the month after that, if necessary. I owe him…" Starsky looked away, leaving the sentence dangling, unfinished, as he became lost in private thoughts once more.

The husky captain watched as the brunet reached for his cup. As he lifted it, some of the liquid sloshed out, landing on the table. Starsky set the cup back down and wiped the spot away before picking up his coffee again.

Dobey and Huggy exchanged at quick look.

Dobey gritted his teeth. There was no easy way to say what he had to "Starsky… Dave, I've spoken with Hutch's doctor. Hutch is not improving-"

Starsky's wandering attention snapped back to the captain. He stood up and glared at his superior, "WHAT! Why didn't you say something about this before? What's wrong with you?" He wobbled as he lurched forward in an aggressive manner.

The captain calmly continued, "Physically, he is recovering. He has regained feeling and some movement of his right side. Doctor Lottridge is confidant Hutch'll be able to walk again. But mentally, he is no better than he was when you last saw him… I'm sorry."

The brunet gaped at his superior for a long moment, and then exploded. "Sorry? You're sorry? That's all I ever hear. Everybody says they're sorry…why are _they_ all sorry? I'm the one that did this to him! I'm the one that's sorry! I'm the one to blame… No one else did this to Hutch, so why do people keep sayin' _they're_ sorry? Huh? Answer me that?" His eyes burned with unshed tears.

Dobey silently watched the younger man, deciding -for the moment- to let Starsky yell. The curly haired detective needed to get it out of his system. He needed to holler at someone. And Dobey and Huggy were there to take the heat. Normally, this would be something that Hutch would do. He groaned inwardly, knowing that those days were now gone. He ran a frustrated hand through his tight, graying curls as Starsky went on with his rant.

"Nobody's as sorry as I am! Fat lot of good it does, bein' sorry…" Starsky continued he began to shake with barely suppressed rage. "Sorry won't cure Hutch, will it?" He snatched up his full cup of coffee and threw it across the room. It smashed against the wall, covering it with coffee and shards of porcelain. The throw as so forceful that some of the cup stuck in the sheetrock, the remainder crashed to the floor.

It was now time to put a stop to this. "Dave, you're shouting." Captain Dobey quietly chastised the angry man. He stood up and walked around the end of the coffee table.

"I don't care!" Starsky wobbled precariously on his right leg, his wild throw had nearly sent him to the floor. The heavy cast and his anger all but removing his natural grace. He caught his balance with some difficulty.

Captain Dobey moved over to stand in front of the distraught man. Harold stood as tall as he could. He did this consciously. Normally, it was a sight imposing enough to make most men step back a pace. But this wasn't a normal situation, and Starsky wasn't just any man. He was one of his best detectives and one of his favorites. And one who was hurting beyond words.

Dobey reached out and placed his hands on the younger man's upper arms, giving him a gentle shake as he spoke. "According to his doctor, Hutch will never fully recover from this. You're going to have to come to terms with that, no matter how difficult it is for you. Now, I've read the accident report. You did _nothing_ wrong. Despite the weather conditions, your speed was not excessive. You slid. Hit a tree. It was just bad luck that Hutch was hurt in the way he was. It's NOT your fault." He looked firmly into the blue eyes, willing Starsky to understand. "The accident was not your fault. It was an accident and nothing more. It could've happened to anyone."

"It didn't happen to anyone. It happened to me. To us… Get out." Starsky whispered angrily as he pointed to the door. He was obviously no longer in the mood for company. "Just… get out."

Dobey dipped his head in resignation and cast a glance at Huggy. The bar owner nodded back and silently walked to the door. Only time would heal Starsky's wounds. There was little Harold could do for the man's emotions at this point. The next few months of adjusting to the traumatic and dramatic change would ease the pain enough so Starsky could return to work. He would extend Starsky's leave of absence. He would continue to check on him. And if need be, would require him to seek counseling.

Dobey closed the door quietly behind him and both he and Huggy listened at the door for several long minutes. After hearing nothing, they left.

On the steps down to their separate vehicles, Huggy broke the silence. "It's a sad thing."

"What is?" The big man grunted in response as he walked down the steps.

"A Starsky without a Hutch is like a stick shift without a clutch." The thin man rhymed.

Dobey rolled his eyes.

Huggy's brief smile faded. "Did you notice all of that cleanin' he was doin'?"

"Huggy, you know he's a neat nik." Dobey admonished the thin man.

"Yeah, but you ain't bringin' him supplies all the time. He's gone through more cleanin' stuff this past month than I do at my bar."

"That's not saying much Huggy. I've been in your bar."

"Hey!" Huggy gave him a hurt look before shaking his head and making for his vehicle.

Dobey went to his own car, got in. He sat there for the longest time, praying for guidance on how to help Starsky through this ordeal. There was no immediate divine answer forthcoming. After a while he admitted defeat. Reluctantly he closed the driver's side door and fired up the engine.

The captain backed out of the parking space, all the while pondering if Starsky was becoming an obsessive – compulsive clean freak. Well, that wasn't such a bad thing. There were far worse, far more dangerous things the detective could be doing with his time. Dobey patted the gun in his pocket and wondered how long it would be before Starsky missed his Berretta.

XXXX

Starsky stood at his door for several long moments, waiting. It took a while but finally he could hear Dobey and Huggy leave. He wasn't ready to accept defeat. Not yet. Everybody was acting like Hutch was never coming back. He wouldn't believe that. He couldn't believe that. It didn't feel like the truth to him. But there was little he could do at this point. He heard the tinkle of a bit of porcelain falling from the wall to the floor. Well, there was one thing he could fix right now.

Wandering into the kitchen, he collected his cleaning supplies and hobbled over to the coffee splotch on the wall and began to clean it up. Dobey must think he was blind. He saw his captain pocket his gun. That was just fine with him. He had another one, but he had no intention of using it on himself. That wasn't his style. He had to see Hutch again. He had to see the truth for himself. If Hutch truly were permanently damaged...

Starsky slowly scrubbed the wall and carefully picked out each piece of the shattered cup. He might have to paint the coffee spot over and wondered briefly if he had enough paint for the whole wall. It had to match or his landlord would see the difference. He mentally groaned at the possible work that lay ahead of him.

Next he took the paper towels and patted the wet carpet where the coffee had dripped from the wall to the floor, picking up the rest of the pieces of the broken cup as he did so. His mind wandered over the well-beaten path on how to get more information about Hutch… Dobey wasn't lying to him about Hutch's condition, he knew that. He was also aware that Hutch's parents were protecting their son. Hell, if it had been the other way around, he likely would have blamed _them_ for Hutch's injuries.

The brunet climbed carefully to his feet and took the soiled paper towels and smashed cup debris and threw them in the trash. In the preceding weeks, he had picked Dr. Franklin's brain for every scrap of information about head trauma, aphasia and it's complications. Some of the stuff was encouraging. Some was not. There was nothing more for him to investigate, no fact that he hadn't checked and rechecked. Dr. Franklin had given him some old back issues of the medical journal 'Lancet' to go over to further his education on the subject.

Starsky wet a sponge and got out the rug shampoo, he had to get the stain out of his carpet. And as he blotted and worked at the splotch, he thought there might be an angle or two he hadn't checked out yet. A rare smile crept across his face as he looked thoughtfully at the carefully stacked pile of 'Lancet' magazines.

XXXX

Starsky stifled another yawn and the words in the magazine blurred. Try as he might, he couldn't fight sleep any longer. He looked at the various 'Lancet' medical journals that were scattered all over his bed. There hadn't been anything in them that jumped out at him and begged for a closer look, no new information.

His intuition led him to take a closer look at Hutch's doctor. He rolled his eyes at himself, knowing that he was really grasping for straws now. "Paranoia has set in folks. I'm starting to think like some nut-job… 'No one but me can help Hutch.' Bullshit. He's getting the best help that money can buy." He snorted to the empty room. "And you keep talkin' ta yourself an' you're gonna end up in Cabrillo." He clamped his lips together.

None of the articles he read raised any red flags. But those were medical journals, dry and highly technical there were no hidden meanings, just a desire to communicate medical information to others. Great for doctors and other professionals to read, but a struggle for a layman to slog through. He made a mental note to have Dobey pick him up a medical dictionary of some sort.

Exasperated, he grunted his frustration. Like reading up on the subject was somehow going to make him less responsible for the damage he'd done. Maybe Richard Hutchinson was right in putting a restraining order on him.

He dropped his head into his hands as a wave of exhaustion flowed over him. When a crick started forming in the back of his neck, he rubbed at the ache. Then swiped his hands down his face, pausing to rub at his gritty eyes. Starsky looked over at his bedside clock. The bright red numbers told him it was 2:14 a.m. He leaned back against the headboard and rubbed his eyes, knowing without even looking into a mirror, they were bloodshot.

This was the part of the day he had come to dread. He worked at various chores and tasks to exhaust himself in the hopes of getting a little sleep. Dreamless sleep… nightmare-less sleep. He worked for hours every day at cleaning his apartment to perfection.

Every morning he dusted, wiped, laundered and vacuumed everything he could. When there wasn't anything left to clean, fold or put away, he would wash himself up and crawl onto his bed to watch the late, late shows, next the creature features and finally the ant races as one-by-one the stations went off the air for the evening. The static hiss was his background music that he listened to as he plumbed the medical journals for every scrap of information.

This had become his daily ritual. The ritual of tying himself up with tiny threads of normality, each cleaning task designed to keep him from falling apart. Each and every one designed to help him keep some semblance of order in his life as he bided his time and healed. Once the cast was off, he would go back to Minnesota. He would somehow get onto the Hutchinsons' estate to see Hutch. He would need a disguise of some sort. Couldn't do that with a leg cast on… and then… and then… well, he'd worry about that part when he got there.

He knew that to Huggy and Dobey, it might look like he was obsessive about housekeeping. And maybe he was becoming a little obsessive. What else could he do with all of his time? His left leg was still in a cast and would be for at least a while longer, so getting around was difficult. Huggy and Dobey had their own jobs and lives. He knew that they couldn't always be here distracting him. Hell, half the time when they were here, he forgot that they were in the apartment with him.

Another yawn forced his jaw wide. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep his eyelids open. The words in the journal blurred and swirled on the page. The words melted into a black seam… a black road, bracketed by white… snow white. White snow. The car followed the road and the white dashes that divided the lanes drew him further into picture. He was driving, Hutch by his side. It was night, snow fell and they talked.

The car was responsive and handled nicely, Starsky loved driving, always had. It was a little tricky remembering how to drive in snowy conditions, but he had learned to drive in snow when he had visited his mother in New York. The trick was to go slow and pay attention to the feel of the car and that was something that was so deeply ingrained in his being that he did it without consciously thinking about it.

"_Hey Hutch, what do you think my Indian name would be? Huh?"_

The blond head slowly turned in his direction and Hutch fixed him with a considering look. One blond brow slowly rose _"I don't know… how about 'Runs With Scissors'?"_

"'_Runs With Scissors, huh?' Well yours should be-"_

"Watch the road!" 

"_No I was thinking more along the lines of-"_

"_Starsky look out!"_

The car slowly spun beneath them. In slow motion, they exchanged a long look before the vehicle slammed into something, bringing it and them to a crashing halt. He sat up in his seat and looked over at Hutch. The left side of his partner's head was smashed in, blood and brains spilled out of the gaping hole and dangled there like uncooked polish sausage.

Hutch grabbed at the dangling bits of blood and brains and franticly tried to push the bloody gelatinous goo back into the cavernous hole. Seeing that Starsky was watching him, Hutch shook his right index finger at him _"This is your fault! You did this to me!"_

"NO!"

Starsky sat up and looked around. He had once again fallen asleep with the light on. He was alone in his bed, the'Lancet' medical journals surrounding him, one lay in his lap. He looked at the clock on the nightstand by his bed. The blood red number flashed 4:37 a.m..

He ran a shaky hand through his wet curls and shook with the cold sweat of terror that now bathed him. The brunet pulled his blankets up to his chest in an attempt to warm up, but the sheets were soaked with his perspiration. He gave an accepting sigh. A new day of cleaning had begun.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

As always, thanks to the Usual Suspects for all of their help and support.

**Warnings:** If you are sensitive, please do not read any further.

**Chapter 6**

Hutch slowly blinked his way into wakefulness; his room was shrouded in the gray colors of pre-dawn. He wasn't certain what had caused him to wake up. He tensed and listened carefully… and heard it again. Out of habit, he tested his left arm. The blond was not surprised to find it was restrained. He moved his left leg a bit and once more felt the tug of restraint. He tried moving his right side and was happy to note that those limbs responded. He further noted that his weak side was not restrained. But why should they bother with it? He had very limited strength or control of that side.

He had attempted to get out of bed several times in an effort to see to his own needs. He had fallen on one occasion and on another had collapsed just short of his goal. After that, they had taken to restraining him at night. It maddened him to be so restricted and he put up a fight each time. But something deep inside him made Hutch put up a struggle every time they did it. He couldn't seem to stop himself.

Hutch guessed that they were restraining him at night so they could sleep without worrying about him falling or hurting himself. His thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the door to his room being opened. That creak was followed by the swish of fabric and he knew what was coming next. Anger, frustration and fear crawled through him. Another day was about to begin.

It must be one of the women in white – a nurse – Hutch knew that now. Words were beginning to come back to him, slowly, far too slowly for his taste, but they _were_ coming back. He could occasionally understand the rare spoken word, but those times were so few and unexpected, that he didn't have time to respond. Spoken words were still mostly gibberish to him. Talking was beyond him; the words just wouldn't come out. He could manage to make some sounds, but he noticed that when he did that, the nurses would often use the push-plunge on him.

He wondered which nurse he would have today, would it be the pinch-faced one or the short one? He was just able to make her form out in the dim morning light, the scent of flowers wafted over him. It was a scent he had come to detest right down to the very core of his being. Today it was the short one. He groaned inwardly, pinch-face wasn't any better or worse than the short one. But at least _she_ didn't pretend that she really cared about him.

The short nurse spoke to him in soft tones. He didn't understand a single word of what she said, but he could read her face. And by now he knew the morning routine. She drew near and smiled down at him. His belly clenched.

The short nurse pulled the bed sheet up away from his right ankle and she brought out a small damp square of sharp smelling stuff and applied it to his skin. It was cold. She wiped a small area where she was going to stick him with the push-plunge.

Hutch struggled to pull his weak leg back away from her, his leg twitched in response. Fear rose as she patted his leg and smiled up at him again. He shuddered and bared his teeth at her.

She frowned back at him, but continued on with her task.

Hutch was sure that what she was doing was wrong, it had to be. His whole mind and body rebelled at the notion of being stuck and having the push-plunge used on him. He was certain as well, that the normal place to use a push-plunge was the arm, or sometimes the butt. But it didn't really matter _where_ they stuck him; his whole being screamed at him that is was wrong.

The only reason he could think that they would give him a push-plunge down there was to hide the fact that they were giving them to him. They varied the places they gave him those as well. Probably to further hide their deed. But why? Why were they doing it? What were they giving him and why were they hiding it? Or was _he_ mistaken about their actions? His whole world no longer made much sense to him. His words and life were gone. With his words gone, he couldn't ask question or even tell anyone what was going on, though he had tried… and failed.

The nurses gave him a push-plunge nearly every morning since he had fought and made noises when he had needed to urinate and had wanted to use the… hard, white bowl, small room… he gave up on that word. But ever since that day, the nurses slipped into his room before his… the crying female; his… _mah-mah_ arrived. He was aware that _mah-mah_ wasn't quite the correct word, but it was a lot closer then 'crying female'. He did not try to call her _mah-mah_ though; some how he figured it would be taken wrong. They already treated him as if he were a… scrunch-faced, cry, squall.

At first, he was certain that they might be trying to help him. That's what the women in white were supposed to do. He had slowly come to realize that the push-plunge things they gave him were not helping him. At least he didn't think they were helping. Then again, push- plunges…of any kind simply made his skin crawl.

Having the stick-poke, drip-drip thing secured to the back of his hand bothered him as well. They had removed the stick-poke, drip-drip thing from his hand a few days ago. But the secret use of the use of the push-plunges made him sweat, tremble and gave him nightmares that he could never quiet remember the content of… it was mostly emotions, and pain. Gut twisting agony, helplessness, fear and a dark figure of a man. A man who wouldn't let him out of a small room, or was it several men? Hutch remembered only pieces of his nightmare. It all was muddled in his mind, sometimes it was one man, sometimes it was three men in the room.

Hutch did remember bitter anger at that the men, or was it a single man? He shook his head but it did nothing to clear up the memory… he thought back to the man in the nightmare. He could have made the pain go away, but he kept Hutch in that little room and made him suffer. But the man had also been kind to him… Was it a real memory? Or was it just another one of his frequent nightmares?

Hutch returned his attention to short nurse and grimaced as she took a last swipe on his leg with the cold pad of smelly stuff, then she poked the sharp part of the push-plunge into his skin. These early morning visits made him want to scream. But he didn't, not anymore. Screaming, or loud noises of any kind brought his mah-mah and stern-faced man. Mah-mah would look distressed and fearful. Stern-faced's eyes never met his, always looking at a point somewhere above Hutch's eyes. Stern-faced's expression was a combination of sorrow and disgust. Then one or both would hold him down while one of the nurses gave him a push-plunge that made him sleepy.

After using the push-plunge, the short nurse went about the rest of the morning routine. She cleaned him up; changed his diaper. This was another thing he hated. Being treated like a cry-squall… not allowed to feed himself, being made to wear diapers. But it was this or the small plastic tube inserted into his privates. He still couldn't decide which was worse, it was this or that. They didn't permit him any other options and being restrained at night kept him from trying to see to his own needs. The nurse would release him just before mah-mah would show up.

Hutch did his best to turn off his mind while she cleaned him up and bathed him. Fighting only made things worse and he never won. Not ever. He looked out his big picture window and tolerated what was being done to him. He imagined himself by a big, endless water that smelled of salt and… and… other things. He closed his eyes and could picture the… blazing circle in the sky, sinking into the big water… he thought of changing colors of the sky as the light slowly disappeared… he felt a deep ache in his chest. It was an ache he got every time he thought of that big water and the blazing circle sinking slowly into the water.

That deep ache that told him he was missing something… forgetting _something_… and that something was important, but what that thing was, he just could not remember. The thing was like his words… there, but gone… like a word on the tip of his… Hutch let out a hiss of frustration as he gave up and mentally returned to his room.

The short nurse removed his restraints and patted his head. She brushed his hair back off of his face and said something. It was all gibberish to him. She shook her head at him and walked away to sit down in a chair across the room.

A short time later, his mah-mah arrived with his morning meal.

XXXX

She was doing it again. Hutch leaned back into the pillow that cushioned his back from the metal rails of the bed. He ground his teeth together as his frustration level crept up another notch. Mah-mah was jabbering at him in that crooning, sing-song way, just as she must have when he was a little, scrunch faced... he didn't even try searching his brain for the elusive word. It only made his head hurt more than it already did.

Hutch knew he was missing so much more than words. He missed being able to move with ease, to grab things without having to concentrate so hard that he got headaches from it. He missed being able to take care of himself… Nothing ever changed for him though. He could hear his stomach rumble and he could feel his anger rise.

She brought the full spoon to his lips, first talking then making motor sounds as she swiveled the spoon around in arcs as she brought it to his lips. Though his stomach snarled angrily at him, he turned his face away from the food. He was not a scrunch faced, crying… He could feed himself, if she would just let him. A harsh breath escaped his lips. He could feel his blood pulse in his veins as his anger grew. Hutch was losing grip of his emotions again. He turned his head and closed his eyes, trying to think about being by the big water.

Mah-mah spoke to him; the tail end of what she said had a slightly higher note which tipped him off that she was probably asking a question. He knew better then to try to speak to her. Most of the time when he tried, nothing came out and the other few times that something did, it was just inarticulate noises that never failed to make her burst into tears and run from the room. That was always followed by one of the nurses securing him to the bed and use the push-plunge on him.

He panted a bit, trying to control his fear of having a push-plunge used on him again today. He didn't want that.

Mah-mah gently grabbed his chin and turned his head to face her. The spoon bumped his lower lip. The smell was inviting… Tempting… He was hungry all the time now, but he didn't want to be fed, he wanted to feed himself. Her way was too slow. He grabbed awkwardly for the spoon with his left hand. Moving his right took too much out of him, the effort alone often gave him blinding headaches. He tried again for the utensil.

She pulled the spoon away and said something in a scolding tone, shaking her index finger at him as she did so.

Hutch watched as her finger turned into a... a fork-tongued, hissing… _thing_ with red eyes. He jerked back from it. The hissing thing turned back into her finger. He blinked. The finger was still a finger. His stomach growled loudly. He knotted his left fist in an effort to maintain his grip on his increasingly overwhelming feelings.

Mah-mah edged closer to the bed and brought the spoon to his lips again. Hutch reached up and grabbed for it. She jerked it away and scolded him again, more sharply this time, waving her finger in his face.

Something tore loose inside of him. Fine, if she wouldn't give him the little metal thing, he'd get his food anyway he could.

He lurched forward and grabbed the bowl that was on the little table next to his bed, he brought it to his mouth and tipped it up, not caring that the warm gooey stuff didn't all make it into his mouth. Some of it dripped out the sides of the bowl and down his chin, some of it made it onto his nightshirt. It was hot, but he ate it as fast as he could, knowing that she would try to take it away from him.

Hutch heard her horrified gasp, but kept eating. He was ravenously hungry. He couldn't get enough. The bowl was snatched from his hands; he made a grab for it and missed, nearly falling out of bed in the process. Hands pushed him back, preventing a fall. He lashed out, suddenly not wanting to be touched. His skin felt hot and tight. He felt as if bugs were crawling on him. He began to flail his left hand wildly about. His fist connected with something solid. There was a muffled thud and a yelp.

Free of the distracting and almost painful feeling of being touched, Hutch began to dab at bits of food off of his covers and chest. His focus narrowed down to each bit of gooey morsel of food he found. He savored the sweet taste and the feel of it in his mouth. His concentration narrowed to just that. Very dimly in the background, he heard a muffled sob, but was too interested in his food to give it much thought.

There were some shouts and weight was piled on him; he didn't have time to struggle before a pinch as the push-plunge sunk into his skin. His world faded to black.

XXXX

Hutch slowly woke up. His mouth had that sticky, thick taste that he identified as having been stuck with the push-plunge once more. He heard his mah-mah's voice and moved his head to see her. Their eyes met and she stepped back from him and put her hands to her face. The skin around her eyes was puffy and discolored. He had seen something like that before, somewhere.

He could see she was very upset and crying nearly silently, only the occasional sob escaped from her. He wondered what had upset her so and tried to reach out a hand to console her. He felt the familiar tug on his wrist. His left hand was restrained. He attempted to use his right hand to reach out to her, it was restrained as well.

Bile worked its way up his throat.

Something was not right.

He knew it.

He could feel it.

He whipped his head about, taking in the familiar sights of his room. The changes came slowly to him. He looked around.

Change number one -he was not in his bed.

Change two -his mah-mah looked like she was hurt.

Change three -was the two men in white clothing who stood on either side of mah-mah. He did not know them. Their arms were crossed over their chest as they looked down at him. He looked at mah-mah; she sobbed once and turned away from him. The short nurse pulled her away from his side. The pace of his… his… quiver-pump-thing began to beat more rapidly in his chest.

The door to his room crashed open and stern-faced man stormed in. He dashed to Hutch's side, face twisted and red. He leaned down and grabbed Hutch's shoulders and shook him hard, yelling into his face. Spittle flecked out and landed on him.

There was a flash of motion and the hard smack of a hand across his face. Hutch blinked up at stern-faced, the pain of the contact seared and burned his cheek. Mah-mah cried out and ran over. There was much shouting and pointing of fingers. Arms gestured wildly. Hutch started to feel queasy as he was overloaded with input. The room spun and his head began to throb. Too much… it was too was much. Something was very, very wrong.

Hutch wanted to ask them to stop. Stop yelling, stop moving. Just… stop. Everything, stop… He sensed he was moving. Only _he _wasn't moving. His bed was. The two men in white pushed his bed, it really wasn't a bed, he knew that, it was too small… no! Small rolling bed… white clothes… they were taking him to a… a… vehicle with lights and loud wailing… bad… bad. This was very bad. Vehicles with lights and wailing meant trouble. Big trouble. Always.

He panicked and jerked and pulled at his restraints.

The bed stopped and the short nurse quickly bared his right arm and tied a stretchy tube around it.

A quiver raced through his body as he stared helplessly at the push-plunge as she brought it to his arm. Closer and closer. Tied, restrained, helpless, no control… no control…Hutch didn't know when he started to scream, but now that he had started, he couldn't stop. "Nuh! Nuh! Mah-mah! Noooo!"

The short nurse plunged the sharp part into his arm and pushed. The liquid was forced into his vein. She removed the stretchy tube and stood up.

"Mah-mah! Mah-mah! Noooo! Mah-mah no!"

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

As always: Thanks to the Usual Suspects! Kate, you are an awesome beta!

Pony - I hope your eyes get better soon!

I'd also like to thank all of the rest of you reading this story as well. It's gonna be a fairly one, I hope you can stick with it. I will understand if you decide not to, since there will be more bad and sad stuff in the upcoming chapters.

I know it's a little early, but Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

**Warnings:** Please don't read this story if you are sensitive.

**West ch. 7**

"Don't you hear that? He's calling for me!" Elizabeth struggled to escape the confines of her husband's arms. "Kenny! Kenny! Darling, Mama's here!"

Richard held her tightly, "Elizabeth, hush! It'll be all right. He hit you. I told you that if he ever did that, he would have to go to Doctor Lottridge's Van Hall Institute. We haven't made any progress with him. Van Hall is his only hope now." The inarticulate sounds that had issued from his son tugged at his heartstrings.

But then Kenneth made other sounds as well, some sounding suspiciously close to swear words. The nurses had told both of them that Kenneth didn't know what he was saying and likely never would; the damage was just too great. The nurses were incredibly helpful and sympathetic to Kenneth and to the both of them. They had been a godsend and were likely the only reason Elizabeth hadn't been hurt worse than she had been.

He was quite angry with Elizabeth for hiding the fact that today wasn't the first time Kenneth had struck her. It was certainly the hardest time, for her nose might be broken. She had tried to use makeup to hide the bruising from him. She had failed. The thick swelling around her nose and eyes had given it away.

He in turn had lost control and slapped his own son. Richard felt bad about it now. Kenneth didn't know what he was doing; he simply wasn't capable of knowing right from wrong anymore and he certainly didn't know his own strength.

Richard had asked Doctor Lottridge to tell him what to expect and not to sugarcoat anything. The good doctor hadn't. His son was going to be a perpetual infant and because he didn't know his own strength, a dangerous one at that. But perhaps, with intensive hands-on therapy, just perhaps Kenneth could become more manageable and be re-schooled so that he could feed himself with the proper eating utensils and not his fingers. There was hope that he might be taught how to use the toilet, maybe even dress himself, but only if he was given the proper long-term care. He would never be able to fend for himself again.

The elder Hutchinson swallowed hard, forcing down the lump that rose in his throat. He knew that neither he nor his wife was getting any younger. If Kenneth had been manageable and non violent, they could have kept him at home and it might have been tolerable -for a few years. But Richard realized that eventually, they would be too old and too feeble, to watch over an adult-sized toddler.

But that wasn't the case since Kenneth was unmanageable and violent. The boy had to leave now. It would only be more difficult for Elizabeth to deal with later. Richard knew he should never have permitted it to go on as long as it had. It had only raised false hopes in his wife. And himself. There. He had admitted it.

The tears burned in the back of the older man's eyes, but he held them in check. He had been hoping the doctor was wrong; he prayed that his boy would recover. He had come into his boy's room day after day and talked to him. Had tried working with Kenneth, but the much hoped for progress, never occurred. Sure, there was some improvement in mobility but that seemed to be the limit. The good doctor had told Richard to expect that.

But every time he looked at his boy, he could only see the damage that had been wrought. He had not been able to force himself to look into his son's eyes, not since Kenneth had been back in the hospital. The vacant stare and drooling still haunted him.

Richard looked at the photos on the wall, each photo recording a single moment in each year of Kenneth's life - in them he could see his son progressing from a cherubic platinum blond baby, to a fit, handsome and proper young man. In his mind's eye, Richard added a new picture, that of a drooling, infantile man. A single tear escaped his iron control and tracked down his face. Acid burned in his belly. So much potential, wasted.

His beautiful boy drooled, moaned and could only make jerky, baby-like movements. There was no grace, no control – no mind- in that body. He couldn't force himself to look into those vacant light blue eyes. His son wasn't in there anymore. He knew it. His boy was gone forever. And he feared if he looked into those eyes one more time, he knew he would break down.

Someone in this family had to be strong and make the hard decisions and as the patriarch, it was his duty. He enfolded his wife in his arms, gently cupping the back of her head to his shoulder and listened as the ambulance doors were slammed shut. And that's just what he had done, he had made the hard decisions and this decision had been the most difficult of all.

The sound of the metal ambulance doors closing were as if he closed off his heart to his once bright and lovely boy, for it was as if his son were truly dead. He finally allowed the tightly held back tears to flow.

XXXX

Doctor Robert Lottridge greeted the ambulance as it pulled into the service bay. This was what he had been waiting for. With young Hutchinson in his control –correction- _care,_ he would finally have access to the kind of funds he needed for his less affluent patients, for his research and for his beloved institute.

With the backing of the well-to-do Hutchinsons and their wealthy friends and connections, Lottridge knew that it was only a matter of time before there would be charity balls and other events that would be held in support of the unfortunate Kenneth. Tragedies such as young Hutchinson's never failed to make the local rich populations open their collective pocketbooks wide. The money would soon start to roll in.

The doctor carefully controlled his expression as the doors of the ambulance were opened and the gurney was lifted out. He put up a hand and stopped the crew before they wheeled Hutchinson into the building. He took out his stethoscope and listened to Kenneth's heart. The beats were slow and steady, the man was still sedated. Lottridge waved the crew forward and fell into step behind them.

It was a pity that Kenneth Hutchinson had been in an accident and it was a loss to his family. But young Hutchinson wasn't an only child. Richard and Elizabeth had a daughter who was married. The Hutchinsons had a grandchild on the way, so the loss of their son would be minimized. The family bloodline would flow in the veins of that grandchild and any subsequent children, so there would be no real harm to them.

Doctor Lottridge carefully searched for opportunities such as this and he was not about to let it pass. Young Hutchinson had a head injury; so there was no telling how much improvement he might make. There was every possibility that Kenneth could make a full recovery. But Lottridge didn't intended for the young man to ever recover enough to leave.

True, he wanted some improvement for the young man; it would make Hutchinson's long term care easier. It would also placate the Hutchison family. A little improvement, a little money. A little more improvement, a little more money. It was a good plan. Sad for the family of course, but they could easily afford it, unlike many of his other patients.

From what Lottridge had found out about the heir to the Hutchinson fortune, Kenneth had disobeyed his father and dropped out of medical school and –much to the embarrassment of the rest of his family- he had become, of all things, a policeman. The doctor shook his head; sometimes the rich were impossible to figure out. To his family, Kenneth was an embarrassment, a wasted life. But his use to the Institute was invaluable. The money his parents would be forking over for his care would benefit many less affluent patients, not to mention helping to fund the doctor's ongoing research. It was a windfall for Lottridge and the Van Hall Institute.

Doctor Robert Lottridge wiped his hand down his face to cover his smile as he listened to the sound of the automatic double doors swooshing closed behind him. He would have to instruct a select few of his carefully chosen staff members in the specific way he wanted Hutchinson cared for - -the young man was going to require a unique regimen for his highly controlled and limited rehabilitation.

Lottridge followed the gurney to the exam room he had specified to the ambulance crew. His golden goose -or gander- in this case, had arrived and unlike in the fable, he was fully aware that he couldn't get all of the golden eggs at once. He intended to keep this 'goose' well tended and very much alive for many years to come.

XXXX

Hutch woke up in slow increments to find that his whole world had changed. It was darkened, but he could tell he wasn't in his room anymore. He vaguely remembered that some men had taken him away from his home and had wheeled him away from Mah-Mah. They must have brought him to this strange place; one that reeked, the smell was sharp, laden with a medicinal aroma that made his nose itch. He knew that scent. It was one that filled him with dread, though he couldn't quite remember why.

He did know that is was always a bad thing to smell… that odor always meant pain or loss. A hazy memory floated by unannounced, that of dark curls and indigo eyes staring up at him, a plastic mask covering the lower half of the face. It was the face of a friend, a dying friend. Was it Dark Curls from before? It just must be. The memory evaporated and was gone just as quickly as it came, leaving Hutch feeling ill.

The queasy feeling remained as Hutch looked about at the austere white walls and cold metal bars on the side of his bed. He shivered and pulled his blanket up, feeling cold in a way that a simple blanket could never warm. He scanned the room and found he was all alone. The only sounds were his rapid breathing and a monitor's soft beeping. Unsure what to do, he worked at sitting up, though it took a lot of his strength to do so.

His right side was still weak and largely uncooperative, but he _was_ getting movement back. He panted lightly, the energy it had taken to move, had sapped him. Or it could be the residuals from the stuff in the push-plunge short nurse gave him. He closed his eyes, the change in his environment was overloading his brain and he could feel his head begin a slow, painful beating.

He heard a door opening and looked in the direction of the sound. In walked a tall man in a long white… shirt… no, that wasn't the right word, but Hutch didn't bother to look for it. It was too hard, not worth it, not for one word. There was a 'click' and the room lit up. Everything was white. The brightness pierced his aching head and the painful beat sped up.

The man went with the odor of the room, sharp and slightly unpleasant, but with good intent. Hutch knew that with the way his head was hurting him, things would soon become a muddled blur of input when he needed to have everything calm and clear. That happened often when he was at home and too many things happened at the same time.

When he got upset by all the commotion, the nurses would almost always give him a push-plunge and he didn't want that, not now. Not when might he end up… someplace else… maybe some place worse, when he awoke up. It made him anxious, the fingers of his left hand dug deep into the covers, scrabbling for purchase, for something to hold on to as he struggled to concentrate on the man in white and what he was saying.

"Khzotaevh?" The man tilted his head slightly. "Dxeopetadsfg?"

Those were questions. Hutch knew they were, but the harder he concentrated on figuring out what was being said, the more his head ached. He focused hard on the man in white. He could feel his eyebrows knit in concentration. He had a feeling he was being tested. What was the right response?

"Khzotaevh?" The man repeated.

Headache growing, the blond struggled to ignore the pain. He knew that the word was the same as before and hoped the man would repeat it. It then occurred to him that perhaps if he gave the right responses, he might be allowed to go back to mah-mah and stern-faced man. He already knew that he didn't want to be here. He willed the man to ask the same question again.

The man obliged him, speaking slowly and clearly. "Kenzoaeth?"

His name. That's what the man in white was saying. Hutch slowly tapped his left hand to his chest and nodded, hardly daring to believe. He didn't want to try to talk just yet. His words were wrong and he didn't feel comfortable enough to try in front of a stranger.

"Hmmm." The man in white pulled a small paper out of his white… shirt… and took out a scribble thing and scratched away on the paper. He stopped, looked Hutch in the eyes and tapped the scribbler to his lips. He stuck out his hand towards the blond.

Hutch stared at the hand and slowly reached out and grabbed it with his left hand and shook it. It seemed right. It wasn't the correct hand for this, but the action was right, he knew it. He smiled. He couldn't help it. This man was trying to communicate with him. Not as a cry-squall, but as one man to another. A small spark of hope flared, perhaps this wasn't such a bad thing that he was sent here after all.

The man in white patted their clasped hands with his free hand, then gently retracted his own, offering a small smile as he did so.

Even though his head pounded with pain, the blond found himself reluctant to let go of the moment. But he released the man's hand and put his own hand to his aching head. He was losing the struggle with the pain.

"Slxoap. Waond mrea lakd." The man in white scratched away on the paper. The man then took Hutch's right hand and felt along it, he pulled out a pin and poked one of the blond's fingers.

Hutch felt the poke to his fingertip and tried to pull his arm away from the slight pain. He was confused by the action, but it hadn't really hurt. His left fist clenched, just in case he needed to punch white coat man.

The man flicked his eyes to Hutch's and frowned a little. He then flipped the blanket away from the detective's legs.

The blond was filled with apprehension, unsure what was going to happen next. He clenched his fist so tight it hurt.

The man in white moved to the foot of the bed and took his scribbler back out and ran it up the bottom of Hutch's left foot.

Hutch's toes curled automatically from the sensation. The action was repeated with his other foot. Again his toes curled, but to a lesser degree.

The scribbler was put away behind an ear and a small mallet was produced from somewhere in the big white 'shirt'. The man tapped the blond's good knee and then his weaker side. The mallet was put away and more scribbling was made on the paper. He tapped the scribbler to his lips a few times before flipping the covers back in place. The man walked to the door, looked over his shoulder at the detective. He left, turning the lights down as he did so.

Though his head ached fiercely, the blond struggled to stay awake for a bit longer as his mind was reeling with questions. He turned his head and noticed something on the small table next to his bed, something helpful. Its shape and curly cord gave it away. The name of the object refused to show itself. It didn't matter. Hutch didn't need the name of the thing to know how to use it. He reached over, picked up the thing and set it in his lap.

His hand hovered over the… the… talk-into-part.

**TBC **


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** Any resemblance to people -living or dead- (or places) is purely coincidental.

**Warnings:** If you are a sensitive, please don't read this story.

Thanks -as always- to the Usual Suspects. I couldn't do it without you ladies.

Sorry for the long delay in posting. RL has been quite rough lately.

**Chapter 8**

Doctor Robert Lottridge left his patient and made his way to his office. He was troubled by the physical exam he had just given. Young Hutchinson's reflexes were far better then he expected them to be at this juncture. The man would be up and walking in no time. While it make caring for Hutchinson easier, since he would need far less nursing. Less nursing equaled a larger profit margin for the institute. Profit made him smile.

But there was a down side. The smile left Lottridge's lips. Such a quick recovery would cost his institute a sizable potential income. Income he and some of his other patients desperately needed.

That thought made him pop his head up and realize that he had walked right by his office. He shook his head at himself and made his way back. Robert entered the room and paused to look at it. The carefully decorated room whispered class and intellect and screamed success. There were three leather chairs, two in front of the rich oak desk and one behind it. A matching coffee table was next to the leather couch. The walls of the room were painted a pleasant oatmeal color.

Bookshelves lined two of the four walls. The books were, for the most part, immaculate and displayed in a pleasing order. Like sizes with like sizes and color matched. The tomes nearest his desk were his research and resource manuals and all showed signs of wear along the binder. It would never do for people to think he was too smart to pick up a book. A third wall sported his degrees, select photos of himself -with important people at social functions- and a few certificates (but not _too_ many), he didn't want to be thought of as a braggart.

As Robert settled back behind his desk, his thoughts went from his décor to his latest patient. What bothered Lottridge was Kenneth's response to his own name and the handshake. If the young man was beginning to progress this much, in such a short time, the likelihood of complete, or near complete recovery were greatly increased. He couldn't have that.

He desperately needed the funds that the Hutchinsons would be providing. He needed that money for his research. Research that was not federally approved, and therefore not government subsidized. Plus he had his high profile charity cases that could not afford the extensive therapy they needed to recover, or improve, as the instance might be. He needed them to boost his public image. But they were a big drain on his limited funds.

Bang! He slammed his fist down on the desk. Most of his assets were wrapped up in his fledgling institute. In a few years he would have access to better funding and grants, but until then he had to rely on carefully selected cases, such as Kenneth Hutchinson's.

Only Kenneth wasn't as bad off as he had expected. Robert knew he had a tough decision to make and he had to decide fairly quickly what he was going to do. Assist young Hutchinson in recovering or slow it down and collect money for nothing.

Robert startled at the sound of his phone ringing and he picked up the receiver. "Hello? Yes… He's WHAT?… Sorry Barbara, I didn't mean to yell in your ear… Did he succeed? … Random numbers? … You're sure? … Okay, just have them take the phone out of his room… Not at all. Thanks."

A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he turned the chair to look out of his corner office to the wide expanse of snow-covered lawn. Trees dotted the space and thickened to a forested area near the fence line was. Van Hall Institute was surrounded by the forest and fence. The forest was a pleasant mix of deciduous and conifer trees and hid the boundary from view. He tilted back in his chair and steepled his fingers, all of it his and all of it his to lose, if he made the wrong decision today.

He swiveled around and looked at his office, his eyes settled on his degrees and certificates. He had worked very hard to get this far. It was unfortunate that he would have to retard Hutchinson's recovery, but he had to look at the big picture and the long-term goals. Robert had to do what he could for the greater good.

In the end, it was a simple choice, really.

Kenneth would be protecting the institute and serving as a means –via family funding. Income that would ultimately lead to medical discoveries that would help hundreds, perhaps thousands of people.

Young Hutchinson had been a cop before his accident. And wasn't it a cop's duty to protect and serve?

XXXX

Hutch's hand had hovered over the talk-into… thing for several minutes. Who should he try to contact? His brain was still quite muddled by whatever stuff they had forced into him with the push-plunge. A hazy image of the man with dark curls floated through his mind and dissipated, leaving a deep ache. The blond rubbed his hand over where it hurt. As he looked at the little square buttons on the call-talk thing.

The marks on the push-squares were nonsensical squiggles. They hadn't always been gibberish. At one time they had made sense. His whole world had made sense. Now everything was so different and difficult. He let his fingers touch the push-squares. He knew he had to punch them in a certain order to connect him with… someone.

Connect.

Blond brows furrowed as he struggled with the term. Connect. That's what he wanted to do. Needed to do. His head pounded so that lights flashed in his vision. He was so tired. Hutch rubbed at his scratchy… peepers? Not quite the right word, but he let it go, not willing to waste his waning energy on that. For the first time the blond tried to remember what had happened. Why was he like this? Why was he always confused… with…with… words gone? He hadn't always been this way. Something had happened. Something bad. But what? What?

He noticed that he was pounding his fist on the bed and forced himself to stop. He would figure out 'what' later. Now he had to… connect. Hutch lifted the talk-into part and put it to his ear. A tone hummed. Next he needed to push the squares in a certain order to speak with… someone. Who? Who should he try to connect with? His aching mind raced. He would have to talk. When he… connected… they would expect him to speak.

He clutched the talk-into part to his chest. He needed words. But he didn't have any. Perhaps the words would come if he… connected. He wouldn't need many. Just a few. Maybe just one, if he connected with the right person. Again a blurred vision of dark curls popped into his brain and left just as quickly. The blond shook his head to clear his mind, it made the ache located there grow, he ignored it and concentrated on the task at hand. First he had to push the little squares in the proper order. He closed his eyes and could picture his fingers tapping the squares. Tapping out a series of numbers. He hit the first square and his fingers flew into action, automatically typing out the rest of number.

A woman responded. Something was wrong. It shouldn't be a woman. And the talk-into shouldn't just connect… without a tone. Hutch put the talk-into part back. Then he lifted it and tried again. Same woman. Babbling. Asking a question. She could be a woman who makes… connections. She would want him to speak. Give her numbers. He put the talk-into back on the… thing. His breath came in frustrated pants. Calm. He needed to be calm. So hard though, with head hurting, people babbling and words not forming.

Okay… practice talking first, and then try to… connect. Hutch now had a plan. His head blazed with pain as he forced himself to say anything… nothing came out, just the sounds of his rapid breathing. He cuddled the talk-into part to his chest and practiced speaking words that he was sure he could make. "Nahoo. Mah-mah." Success sure, but not the kind he really needed. Not the words he needed either. He groaned, knowing he sounded like a cry-squall, or worse. Irritated, he hissed through his teeth. He must have more words. More words or the woman wouldn't help him… connect.

_Fine._ Hutch would try pushing the squares again and if he pushed them in the right order, he wouldn't need to talk to the woman. But he would have to talk to who answered. He slammed the talk-into down on the bed. His exhausted mind raced in circles. He needed to connect. Had to. To do that, he needed to talk. He couldn't do either. He began pounding the talk-into down onto its spot on the main part of the … machine thing where it sat when not in use, unmindful of the clanging noise. _'Can't talk, can't connect. Can't connect if I can't talk.'_ He slammed the thing down, over and over, releasing all his anger and frustration. It was satisfying to try to destroy the device that had thwarted him.

A hand grabbed his. Startled, Hutch looked up and a burly man in white clothes was standing next to his bed. The blond pulled his hand away from the burly man, clutched the talk-into to his chest and growled. He realized his mistake immediately when a tall black man pulled a push-plunge from somewhere. One moment it wasn't there, the next it was. The blond slowly shook his head as the man squeezed the plunge and liquid squired out the sharp part.

Hutch was overwhelmed with a blurry memory, surreal and oh so quick. Another place, another time. Only it wasn't him on the receiving end of the push-plunge. It was someone else. It was a bad time. Staggering away down a long corridor… climbing, crawling up steps, a feeling of danger, of doom. The memory left him as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling sick and afraid. There was no one to help him. Not then, not now. "Nahooo!" Hutch flailed at both of them. _No push-plunge! No!_ His brain screamed as he swung at the man with the talk-into part. The heavy instrument connected with the burly man's hand.

"OWEHCH!" The big man bellowed and flung himself on top of Hutch, using his weight to hold the struggling blond.

It was over. Hutch, already exhausted and still feeling the residuals of his earlier shot, felt the all too familiar bite of the point of the push-plunge sink into his arm. He tried to push the burly man off, an elbow was shoved firmly into his neck, holding him down and squeezing his airway until he feared he would choke. He stopped struggling and the elbow and the man were removed. He drew in an unhindered breath with relief.

The black man patted him on the head and tousled his hair. Hutch flinched weakly away from the hand and unwanted touch. He had only seconds of consciousness left when he saw Burly man take the talk-into. As he reluctantly succumbed to the darkness, he felt the familiar feel of straps being placed on his wrists and ankles.

XXXX

_Two weeks later_

"Come on in Mr. And Mrs. Hutchinson. Have a seat." Doctor Lottridge waved at the empty leather chairs before him. "Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?" At the negative shake of their heads, he waited until they sat down before moving around his desk to his seat. He lowered himself to the chair and once settled, leaned towards the couple. "We have made a little improvement with your son. It's still far too soon to expect any real sort of progress at this juncture."

Doctor Lottridge watched as Elizabeth Hutchinson nervously patted her tight, perfectly coiffed blonde bun and adjusted her skirt. His eyes flicked to Richard and saw the man's lips thin in irritation.

Ice blue eyes met his own, two unwavering laser beams before the senior Hutchinson spoke. "You asked us to give you two weeks before we saw our son. It is now two weeks. I'm not expecting any miracles. I just want to see my boy." The words were clipped as the businessman flicked at a bit of imaginary lint on his pant leg.

Lottridge made note of that reaction and mentally filed it away. As he continued to watch Richard Hutchinson, he shifted around in the leather chair. It squeaked with each movement. The man looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world right now. The missus looked even less comfortable than her husband as she toyed with the straps on her purse.

To put them at ease, Lottridge began a speech he had rehearsed for the occasion. "Would you like a tour of our facilities while your here? We have an excellent-"

"No." Mrs. Hutchinson quickly interrupted him. She stopped, darted a look at her stiff and silent husband. When he said nothing, she continued. "Thank you, no. Perhaps later. We'd like to see our son now. We've driven nearly two hours to get here. We want to spend as much time as possible with Kenny before heading back."

Lottridge stood up. "All right, follow me please." As he opened the door to his office, he noticed that Mrs. Hutchinson was carrying a small shoebox sized package. "What did you bring?"

Mrs. Hutchinson flashed him an anxious smile, "Just a little gift. You mentioned Kenny showed a lot of interest in them." She patted the beribboned box. "It should be quite appropriate for his age…" Her lower lip gave a brief, sorrowful wobble as she amended her statement. "His mental age, that is." She straightened up and squared her shoulders. She linked her free arm through her husband's waiting elbow and rested her hand on his forearm. They waited for him to lead them to their son.

"Good. It should make your son very happy." The doctor grinned sly behind their backs as he closed the door to his office, guessing what was in the box, it would likely make young Hutchinson anything but happy. He smoothed out his smile as he ushered them out of his office.

XXXX

So far Hutch had been kept in a room with no windows. He could only guess it had been several days since he had arrived here, in this strange place. But without being able to see outside, he couldn't really be certain. There was a daily routine, of sorts. He was encouraged to move his arms and legs. His weak side was massaged and lightly exercised for him. The blond expected that sort of thing to be happening to him. That part seemed right. Correct. He was fed three times a day. Not that he always ate what they offered. Sometimes he tossed it, at his nurses, at the walls and even the ceiling, just to get a reaction from his caretakers.

But their reaction was always the same. No one spoke to him. Not once. Aside from the painful sound Burly had made the day Hutch had arrived, not one person since then had made a sound or spoke to him. There was no music-sound-box, or moving-pictures-sound-box in his room either. He occasionally made noises and worked at trying to speak, just to assure himself that he was not deaf. His caretakers actively discouraged him from speaking whenever they were around. If he spoke, they would just stop in the middle of whatever was going on, strap him to the bed, turn out the lights and leave him for hours. It was bizarre and unnerving.

He had been taken to a few different rooms and in each he had avidly looked for a talk-into. Occasionally he found one and would try to… connect. He had been practicing talking, but the words sounded wrong. Hutch felt fairly sure that all he needed to do was get a few moments alone with a talk-into and he would be able to make contact with someone. Then he would be taken out of this place. It was something he wanted more each day.

Today the morning routine had drastically changed. They used the push-plunge on him –something they hadn't done in a while- and took him to a room he never been in before. It was a lot like his usual room, except this one had a large window with a view of the outdoors. Burly placed him in a large cushioned… sit-on… next to the glass. The blond put his left hand on the transparent surface and could feel the cold coming through. He watched as white stuff drifted down from above. The whole world was white. He closed his eyes and absorbed the sensations of finally being near… outside.

A memory rose, unbidden. But Hutch couldn't be sure if it was real memory or from the contents of the push-plunge. He let the images flow. It was worse if he fought it.

The image was hazy, unfocused and disjointed. Someone was beside him in the wheel-motor-drive, someone he knew –Dark Curls? His fuzzy brain rapidly moved on, not allowing him to concentrate on the person. A winding… path… before them. Moving… white lights and white stuff falling heavily from the sky, just like now. Only then it wasn't light outside. Hard to see out. Dark... dark out. Moving slowly… Talking. Laughing. Suddenly it all changed. Danger!

"Lukow!" Hutch gasped, startling himself with the reflexive sound. He found himself back in the window room. He tried to stand, hoping that his main caretaker -Burly man- nor anyone else had heard him speak. It was bad. Trouble. He didn't want to be strapped down and left in the dark again. But the danger seemed palpable, adrenalin surged and he pushed to his feet. His weak right side failed him and he collapsed back into the… sit-on.

"Knybabwhazrongmamasherescaru?"

The blond twitched at the unexpected sound and touch. Hands patting his head, brushing back his hair. After days and days of near total silence… her voice was loud, her light contact too much. He pulled away from the hands and turned to look at who was there.

Mah-mah.

Hutch tilted further from her, nearly falling out of the sit-on in the process. She pulled him upright. As he stared at her, he wavered between happiness and anger. Happy to see familiar faces, angry that they had sent him here. He noticed some movement in behind Mah-mah and spotted Stern-faced, hovering in the background, close to Mah-mah. His emotions continued to swing wildly from joy to hostility. Were they going to take him home now? His hopeful eyes leapt to meet hers.

She smiled and placed a brightly colored box in his lap. "Ohpnit."

The blond looked back a Stern-faced, who crossed his arms over his chest, his expression neutral.

Hutch returned his gaze to the box in his lap. He felt around it, threading his fingers through the ribbons as he patted around the box. He tried not to let his confusion show. What did she want him to do with it? He fretted about the correct solution. Would they make him stay if he got it wrong? His heart rate quickened as his anxiety grew.

"Ohpnit" Mah-mah repeated.

Hutch clinched his teeth. She wanted him to do something with the box, but what? He watched as she shook her head and sighed. She took the ribbon off and lifted the lid, smiling, she pulled back the tissue paper to reveal a blue toy talk-into. Her smile broadened as she picked up the talk-into and spoke into it. She held it up to his ear and pushed the push-squares. A cartoon voice spoke, it – like everything else- was gibberish to him.

He pulled back away from her and stared. It was a joke. It had to be. Was this some sick game they were all playing with him? Were they trying to drive him crazy? But if it was a joke, why wasn't anyone laughing? He could feel his blood rushing though his veins, pounding in his ears. He could feel the heat rise in his face. "SHIT!" He grabbed the toy and threw it as hard as he could. It gave a satisfying clang as it hit the wall. "Shitshitshitshitshit!" He barked triumphantly as he glared defiantly up at Mah-mah.

She gasped and stepped back, hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Stern-face stepped forward, only to edged out of the way by Burly. The big caretaker smiled at Hutch and spoke quietly to him.

"Shitshitshit!" The blond snarled back, angry beyond words that Burly choose _this _moment to finally speak to him.

Burly continued his quiet talk and Hutch punched him. Burly carefully licked his bleeding lip and smiled before continuing his calm tones.

Hutch could hear Mah-mah sobbing as she and Stern-faced left.

XXXX

_Lottridge's office_

Doctor Lottridge handed her a small box of tissues. "I'm sorry about what happened Mrs. Hutchinson, Mr. Hutchinson. It's difficult to know what'll set a particular patient off. There was no way of knowing it would be a toy telephone. We shall keep all phones away from your son from now on. We don't want to upset him any further. He had shown such keen interest in them."

The woman nodded as she dabbed at her running mascara. "He swore at me. He's never done that before. Never. Maybe this isn't the right place for him to be. He seemed so very upset."

Lottridge felt a rush of fear, but hid it. "Unfortunately, swearing is a common occurrence in brain injured patients. Their brains no longer work the way they should. They get easily frustrated. Frustration is closely related to anger and hostility. In this case, I don't think he really knows what he's saying. Like a two year old child, he's just repeating a word he's heard."

"You let your employees use that sort of language around your patients?" The woman gasped.

Robert held up his hand. "No, not at all. Did you notice when your son hit Nurse Ryder, he did nothing but continue to try to calm Kenneth? That is what our highly trained staff does when confronted with such situations. Hostility and anger are met with calm and reason." He walked over and put his hand on the narrow shoulder and took a gamble.

"We are doing all we can to help Kenneth. If you want to take him elsewhere, I understand." He patted her shoulder. "Here, let me get some numbers for you out of my Rolodex. Doctor Steven Silverberg has a wonderful facility in New Orleans. Or there's Doctor Tim Vogel's TBI Institute in Washington DC." He grabbed a pen and pad and started flipping through the file.

Mrs. Hutchinson stepped closer to the desk. "But those places are so far away. You came highly recommended. Kenneth is showing some improvement in movement." The husband shot a look at his wife. "And he's had his share of temper tantrums even before he arrived here." The woman blushed and turned away.

Inwardly Robert heaved a sigh of relief. It worked. His big gamble had paid off.

And his plan was working. A few more 'temper tantrums' like that and they would stop seeing their son. He had seen it happen many times before. Parents always wished that their children would bounce back and be exactly what they were before traumatic brain injury, but sadly most never did bounce back. Lottridge cleared his throat. "There is a well known therapy – it's called REST therapy- and it might just help your son relax and learn to be calm. If you're interested, that is."

Two blond heads swiveled to face him.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

Hi All,

Sorry for the long wait between chapters. Real life has been very difficult for my family lately. As some of you know, my mom has cancer. She starts chemotherapy Monday. Thank you for all the kind words, encouragement and support during this very difficult time.

**Warning:** If you are sensitive, please read no further. Sadness, bad things and a few bad words abound in this story.

As always, thanks to the Usual Suspects, I couldn't do this without you ladies.

Special thanks to Kreek for her awesome story idea near the very end of this chapter. Without her help, I'd STILL be trying to figure out how to wrap this chapter up.

"If you're going through hell… keep going." Winston Churchill

**Chapter 9 **

"What's rest therapy?"

Richard watched as his wife sniffled the words out from behind a wadded up Kleenex tissue. He placed his arm around her shoulders, helping her to regain her composure and thereby giving him a way to maintain his own.

Doctor Lottridge smiled warmly at the woman before gently correcting her. "REST is an acronym for – Restricted Environmental Stimulation Therapy and it has been proven to be very useful for reducing stress, relieving pain and accelerating healing. Furthermore it aids in learning, improving mental and physical performance. It has been in use since the 1950's. Here, I have a book by Dr. John Lilly, founder of the technique."

The elder Hutchinson felt his lips tighten into a tense line as he listened to the doctor. Despite Elizabeth's concerns, Richard noticed a great deal of improvement in Kenneth's ability to move and even stand. The movements were more coordinated and the words --_word_- he silently amended, had been quite clear. That was something his son hadn't been able to do just two weeks ago. The cussing fit and punch, though unwanted was even more proof that whatever Lottridge was doing for his boy _was_ working.

He gently guided his wife to sit. He still couldn't bring himself to deal with his son's malady and wandered over to the window, allowing Elizabeth to handle the uncomfortable situation for him. Richard felt guilty about the circumstances but couldn't force himself to change his own attitude. A part of him hoped this would all just go away.

With his back to the room and listening with half an ear to what the doctor was telling his wife, Richard threaded his fingers through his thinning stands of hair as he stared out the window. The snow was falling harder now. They would need to leave soon before the roads got too bad. Being in this place, this institute, and put in the position of having to make tough medical decisions for Kenneth was not the high point in his day. He loathed coming here for it somehow made him feel like a failure.

While he watched the mesmerizing action of the falling snow, he could hear the doctor droning on in the background about the benefits of REST therapy. "- and the brain is freed from external stimuli and thus starts to work more efficiently. This in turn accelerates the learning process and can even help with eliminating compulsive behaviors, such as the ones your son exhibited today. I'm working on a study now that-"

Richard cut Lottridge off as he made up his mind. "Do it." In the reflection of the glass, he could see Lottridge lean towards his wife with something in his hand. Richard turned to face them, wanting to know what the object was.

"Beg pardon?" The thin doctor replied as he handed a book to Elizabeth.

"If it'll help my boy, do it." He held up his hand to forestall anything the doctor was about to say.

"Well… _ahem_…" The doctor nervously coughed. "All right, but there is a small matter of the fee for this extra treatment." The man looked away briefly as he fidgeted and played with a ring on his right index finger.

Richard gently pulled his wife from the chair. "I don't care what it costs. If it will help Kenneth improve, it doesn't matter what the cost is. Just send me the bill."

Lottridge smiled warmly. "Of course. You remember what I said before though, Ken will never recover completely."

"I remember." Richard gritted out as he edged Elizabeth out of the office. He stepped back in for a private word. He shook his index finger warningly at the doctor's nose. "I do not want a repeat of today's behavior. Is that understood? That sort of conduct is unacceptable, even for a two year old. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal."

XXXX

Burly and another caretaker walked up to Hutch where he was still seated by the window. The other male nurse, it was the black man that sometimes assisted Burly. The blond remembered him from his first day here and a few occasions since that first time. That man had given him a shot. Hutch's head pounded after his fit of temper, air hissed through his clenched teeth. He was in for it now.

The blond knew he should have been calmer and try to act his best around his… Mah-mah and Stern-faced, but whatever had been in the push-plunge always set his teeth on edge and everything angered him. He watched the nurses approach and something in their demeanor bothered him more than usual. He couldn't quite figure out why.

Burly seemed a tad giddier than normal as he shoved Hutch into the wheelchair. The blond felt his anger rise, but knew the futility of trying to fight. The end was always the same. He lost. Apprehension began to replace anger as he noticed that he wasn't being taken back to his sterile, white, windowless room, to be strapped down for his behavior. He was instead rolled down several hallways and into a little box-room that traveled up and down. The word for that box was close to the tip of his tongue, he could feel it… an… an… up-down box. One word did come to mind and he spoke it. "Shit!"

Burly gave him a firm cuff to the back of his head. When Hutch craned his head around to glare at the caretaker, the man gave him a toothy grin. Unnerved, the blond turned back around in his chair.

When the up-down stopped, Burly maneuvered him down a long, gray corridor and finally to a medium-sized room. The gray room had a salty smell. In the center of the gray area was a large gray… container. There was nothing on the walls and only a single light overhead. The blond pushed himself back and deeper into the seat of the chair as dread replaced the apprehension and sent it squirming -like a green, hoppy thing- in his belly.

The two nursed pulled Hutch to his feet, the darker caretaker holding and supporting him while Burly moved behind him and started to untie the strings of his hospital issue nightshirt.

"Noo!" The blond pushed away from the dark man. "Noo!" He broke the man's hold and staggered away to the nearest wall, placing his back against it, using it for support. He watched as the two nurses exchanged a look and spread out their arms before moving towards him in a slightly crouched position.

"E-zay… Relx… won urt. Jstlilrest." Burly crooned as the pair moved in.

The words almost made sense. Hutch's legs quivered, his weak one wouldn't lock and his left foot began to slide out from under him. Helpless, he growled deep and low in his throat, knowing he couldn't keep them from doing anything they were going to do. But he _had_ to do something. He couldn't let them just do… whatever… to him. Not without a fight.

Burly made a grab for him and while Hutch's attention was focused on the big man movements, the other caretaker lunged forward and put him in a headlock. The blond's weary legs buckled, but he continued to struggle. He hit, kicked and even gnashed his teeth at the men holding him. But they were prepared and easily countered each of his attempts.

In short order he was subdued. The black male nurse held him down with a forearm across the front of the beleaguered detective's neck in a light chokehold while Burly pulled roughly his clothing off. Each man only moved just enough to aid the other without giving Hutch any room to do more than squirm beneath their firm grip. The men cinched a wide belt around his waist and placed broad, soft cuffs on his wrists and ankles. The ankles were clipped together and his wrists were clipped to the waist strap.

Helpless.

Hutch's dread turned to fear as something soft was squished into each of his ears and a… a… black cloth was tied over his eyes. Sight and sound ripped away from him. His breathing ramped up as panic began to set in. What were they going to do to him now?

Minus sight and sound he was reduced to taste, smell and feel. None of those senses were particularly helpful right now. The men picked him up and carried him a short distance. As he was lowered, his fear increased and he bucked his body, trying desperately to escape their clutches, terrified of what might be about to happen. "Nuh… nuh" The word was mangled and guttural, panted out as he twisted and pitched until their hands slipped from his naked, sweating body.

He landed with a splash and warm water enveloped him. Hutch, completely unnerved, began thrashing about, banging his head and body around. He tried to sit up and whacked his forehead against something solid. It didn't budge. He tried again and again, heedless of any damage he was doing to himself or the box, only wanting out of the strange and frightening watery space.

The liquid splashed and went up his nostrils, in his mouth, causing him to gag and choke. The cloth over his eyes became soaked. Hutch gasped, coughed and bucked harder. His mind screamed and begged, but words refused to form though his jaw worked hard.

Why? Why were they doing this to him? No light, no sound… just a watery death waiting for him the moment he stopped moving. The blond was certain he would die soon.

WHY? His brain screamed as he struggled. Was it because he threw the stupid toy talk-into? Because he hit Burly? Or was it because he had disappointed Mah-mah and Stern-faced? All of those things?

His efforts to stay above the water slowed as his limited strength gave out. Hutch's lungs heaved and ribs strained to contain the rapid pumping of his chest-beating thing. Eventually his struggles lessened until –completely exhausted- he held his breath and wondered how long he could float until he drowned. The water soon stilled.

The blond could -now that he stopped thrashing- very easily push his bound heels a little down and touch the bottom of the container. The water wasn't deep at all. A fearful thought slithered down his spine. It did not take much to drown a person. Not much at all. Hutch thought grimly and his Adam's apple bobbed in response to that worrying thought.

The water was strange… it was warm, -body temperature, silky smooth and thick. Floating required no effort at all. The blond's fear level slowly dropped a few notches as he realized he wasn't going to drown. At least not for a while. He gradually settled, catching his breath and wondering what else they were going to do to him.

A brief 'whoosh' as air ruffled the fine hairs on his face, starling him. He held his breath, awaiting their next move. Another 'whoosh' and the airflow stopped. Hutch realized that they had been checking on him after he stopped struggling. It left him with two questions. Where they checking to see if he were alive? Or if he were dead?

He waited and before long the only thing he could feel was the beating of his chest-thump thing.

XXXX

Lottridge closed the lid on the float tank and secured it. "Did he fight it for long?"

Muscle-bound Nurse Kevin Ryder continued to towel himself off. "He stopped just before you got here." He pulled at his soaked shirt with distain.

"Hmm, he fought longer than I expected." The tall doctor looked thoughtfully at the tank. "Leave him in there for one hour. Check on him frequently. He's no good to anyone dead."

"That's the normal time allotment. Why not leave him in there longer?"

Robert gave the drenched nurse a rebuking look. "This is _treatment_, not torture. You know what happens if you leave someone in there too long? They'll start hallucinating, their skin will dry out and the Epsom salt in the water will loosen his bowels." He raised a meaningful eyebrow. "So unless you would like to clean out the tank and sanitize it…"

Ryder's upper lip curled. "Gottcha. One hour."

The doctor strode to the door, slowing as he opened it, he spoke over his shoulder. "Besides, we can always increase the time, if it's necessary."

XXXX

_Bay City_

Starsky woke with a scream clogging his throat. He fell out of bed and said scream was unclogged as his cast hit the floor with a loud cracking sound. Pain hazed his vision as he struggled to locate the break in the plaster. Waves of agony washed over him... what had he just done to his healing leg? He felt along the cast and could feel the freshly broken edges crumble beneath his questing fingertips in the darkness of his room.

"Terrific."

And to top things off, last night was one of the rare times that he had managed to turn the lights out before falling asleep. From his current position on the floor, it meant the switch was now high above his head. He grumbled several foul words and fumbled around for one of his crutches. After a few attempts, he flicked the switch on and snagged the phone off the nightstand by the cord. He gave it a yank, heedlessly dropping it to the floor with a clang.

Starsky punched some numbers and listened to the phone ring a dozen times before realizing he had automatically dialed Hutch's number. He slammed the receiver down and counted quietly for several seconds – to calm himself- before calling Huggy.

After making his request for aid, and as he waited for his bartender friend to arrive, he remembered what his dream -or rather nightmare- had been about. It was the same one he'd had since finding out how badly hurt Hutch was. The curly haired detective scrubbed at his suddenly stinging eyes as he recalled the dream. Bits of the nightmare changed, but the main theme stayed the same –his friend was damaged beyond repair and blaming him for it.

A wave of pain ebbed up from his re-injured leg, momentarily breaking his chain of thought. The injured man gingerly scooted over so he could rest his back against his bed while he waited for Huggy to arrive. Breathing through the pain, he looked over at the carefully stacked pile of medical journals.

What was the point to reading them? He hadn't learned anything of value. He only had his gut telling him that something was wrong. He couldn't put a finger on it, but something just didn't add up. The brunet had checked everything he could think of. Had checked with various courts, records, doctors and patients. Nothing of interest had shown up.

Why wasn't anything coming from his hunch? Why?

Huggy, Dobey and Doctor Franklin had done their best and had been unfailingly staunch supporters, but his obsession was wearing thin on all of them. Starsky glared at the pile of journals and gave them an angry shove. They tumbled and scattered over the floor. He grabbed the nearest one and flung it across the room. It smacked the wall and fluttered like a wounded butterfly to the carpet.

Unsatisfied, he threw another and kept tossing them until none were left. As he progressed through the stack, it slowly dawned on him.

It wasn't some damn doctor's fault that Hutch wouldn't improve. It was his.

Tears burned acid trails down his cheeks. Out of magazines, he grabbed one of his crutches and hurled it.

It hit the doorframe with a satisfyingly loud bang. He reached for the other one.

"Whoa! I come in peace."

Starsky couldn't see his informant friend through the tears and could barely understand the words as his ears roared with white noise. "It's my fault Hug. Mine." His shoulders started to heave. "No one else's. I've been lookin' for someone to blame. Someone… else. There ain't no one else. It's just me. I did it."

The bartender crossed the room and rested a consoling hand on a shaking shoulder. "Naw, Starsky… c'mon, don't say that. Hutch wouldn't blame you-"

The brunet angrily shrugged the hand off. "Don't you get it? Hutch CAN'T blame me! Because of me, his mind is permanently sc-scrambled. That's why I have that same dream every night. Same thing, over and over."

"Nothing changes?"

"No… yes, parts of it change. But in the end, Hutch's always sayin' _'It's your fault, you did this to me.' _An' he's right. I've been wastin' my time… and everyone else's. Chasin' shadows, runnin' down useless leads… I'm s-sorry. I'm-- I'm sooo sorry." Starsky knew he wasn't saying he was sorry for making Dobey, the doctor, or Huggy help him in his investigation. He'd do it again in a heartbeat. He was apologizing to Hutch. Something he'd never get to do in person. The brunet totally broke down, but silently. He crumpled to the floor and dug his fingers into the carpeting like worms burrowing into soil. He buried his face thick shag, clutching and pulling at the fibers. The carpet soaked up his tears.

Huggy stood watching for a long moment, uncertain what to do. Finally he gently pulled his grieving friend to his feet and helped him dress warm enough for the trip to the hospital to get the broken cast replaced.

The trip was silent and long. Huggy took a deliberately longer route to give Starsky some time to regain his composure by the time they reached the emergency room.

Huggy pulled into a spot near the entrance and his dark brown eyes pierced the dim interior of the car to the man slouched beside him. "So, in your dream, Hutch blames you. That's all? Does he say anything else?"

Misty dark blue eyes looked back into the bartender's. "He doesn't _always_ say 'It's your fault.' Sometimes he just shakes his finger at me. Remember how he always did… does… did that? Shit! What's the point to this Hug?" He glared at the informant. "Is there a point?"

"Well, I was jus thinkin' back to my great granny. Now she always said that there was a reason fer dreams repeatin' themselves. There's somethin'… some message you ain't gettin'"

"Yeah, the message is that it's MY fault." The curly haired detective opened the car door and reached for his crutches. "I get that now. Thanks." He snapped sarcastically as he struggled to stand.

Huggy, knowing his friend was in no mood to listen, trotted around the back of the car to assist getting Starsky to the ER. There would be plenty of time to discuss this later. A life time, perhaps. Provided Starsky wanted to live that long. But at least he was beginning to deal with his guilt. That was a start.

XXXX

_Van Hall Institute _

Rest.

Hutch had learned to dread the word. Burly took pleasure in speaking it word slowly, drawing it out each time he said it as he flipped and waved the black cloth. The blond dreaded the sessions in the watery bury-you-in. He hadn't seen Mah-mah or Stern-faced since he had thrown the toy talk-into. He didn't know how long ago it had been either. Time melted into a meaningless thing for him.

There were times Hutch dreamt of Dark Curls and wondered where the man was and why he didn't come and help or free him from this place. It slowly dawned on the blond that perhaps Dark Curls had died on the dark night with the white stuff falling down. That thought made him very sick and sad. It took away much of his will to struggle and resist what they did to him. The only thing that kept him going now was that he didn't know for certain that Dark Curls was dead and until he did know, he would try to figure a way out of this place.

He was slowly learning not to fight them. To do whatever the caretakers wanted or be tied down or given the dreaded 'rest' treatment. If they wanted him to sit somewhere, he sat. He moved when and where they wanted him. The blond gave up attempting to talk altogether. He let them to aid him in walking and moving his arms. Hutch could feel himself getting stronger and he knew he was improving. But he kept that to himself and waited.

Whenever he was alone –which was often- he worked on trying to read and spell. That part was difficult. He had nothing to practice with, no words to copy and nothing to write on. Hutch also worked at walking and moving his right arm and leg on his own. He would show Mah-mah and Stern-faced how good he was, how much he had improved. Maybe then they'd take him out of this horrible place.

Then came the day he had been waiting for. Burly took him to the room with a big glass window that split the room in two. The big nurse held his elbow to steady him as he walked to a table and a sit-on. On the table was a plate with meat, potatoes and beets and a four-pronged eat-with.

Hutch looked down at the meal and snuck a look at Burly, looking for a clue as to what was expected of him. A tap on the glass made him look up. Mah-mah and Stern-faced were behind the window. Mah-mah waved at him and smiled. He felt his chest-thump thing leap to his throat.

This was his chance. The one opportunity that he had been waiting for. Once he made his move, if they didn't get him out of this horrible place today… Burly and White-coat would use the push-plunge on him, tie him down, put him in the watery bury-you-in and make him 'rest'… he knew much more of that treatment and he would go mad. But he hadn't counted on them putting him in this room. He was sure that they would have taken him back to same room they had come to see him in the last time. This changed things. He had to figure out a different way to pull off his plan and he was almost out of time.

Hutch peered up at Burly. The man nodded and smiled, but his eyes warned him to be good. To emphasize his point, the big man pulled out the dreaded black cloth that was always used to blind the blond out of his pocket and let Hutch see it. The meaning was clear -behave or he would be made to 'rest'.

"Eat." The muscle-bound nurse's tone was amiable.

The blond carefully picked up the four-prong eat-with. He still had to use his left hand since his right still did not obey him completely and besides, he didn't want Burly or White-coat to know how much he had improved.

He slowly ate his meal, sneaking looks at Mah-mah and keeping an eye on Burly, who had backed away and now stood by the door. White-coat entered the room where Mah-mah and Stern-faced were. He saved the horrible beets for last and carefully put them in his mouth and chewed. He pretended to swallow and looked over at Burly.

The big nurse smiled and nodded. Hutch slowly stood up and walked to the window that separated him from Mah-mah. She put her hand on the glass and he put his hand over hers. She smiled and water leaked from her eyes. She looked over her shoulder and spoke to Stern-faced, her hand still on the glass that kept them apart. He couldn't hear her words but it didn't matter, he had to act now.

He spit the chewed beets into his weak right hand and began writing on the glass with his left as quickly as he could. The messy red beets ran down the pane. Mah-mah turned back around and saw the mess. Her face collapsed, changing rapidly from happy to sad. She turned away, with shoulders heaving.

Stern-face ran over and pulled her into his arms, shooting Hutch an angry/sad look before hustling his obviously upset Mah-mah out the door.

White-coat stared at him through the beet-stained glass. The thin man's eyes went from his face to the beets smeared on the window, his complexion paled and he darted out of the room.

Hutch rested his forehead on the glass. He had failed. Mah-mah and Stern-faced were gone and White-coat knew the truth. It would be nothing but push-plunges and 'rest' for him from now on. He slid to the floor, uncaring. He had failed and now he was trapped here forever.

**TBC**

Author's Notes:

1. The 'writing on the window' scene is the wonderful Kreek's awesome idea.

2. REST therapy is a real therapy. Information concerning REST is as accurate as I could make it. **Except** blindfolds are NOT needed during sessions and you are not locked in the tank.


	10. Chapter 10

Hi All,

So sorry for the lengthy delay in posting a new chapter. Real Life has been kicking me around the curb for the last few weeks.

As always -- special thanks to Kreek and Eli for countless reading and re-reading various incarnations of this chapter. I just couldn't do this with out them.

**Chapter 10**

Lottridge stared for a long time at the dripping, messy scrawl on the glass. Kenneth had attempted to write –something- on the window. The man was recovering far too quickly despite of what had been done to retard any progress. Thank god that the Hutchinsons' hadn't understood what had just happened. All they had seen was their adult son playing with chewed food on the glass, just like small child might. Agast, they had left immediately. He had hurried down the hall after them, hastily assuring them it was a passing phase and to focus on how well Kenneth was moving.

The word – seen from their side of the glass- was backwards, a mirror reflection and written with the left hand of someone who was mentally compromised and –under normal circumstances- right-handed.

He exited the viewing room and entered the room where his patient had been and looked at the writing from the correct direction. It was a tilted, childish attempt, but the word –while missing the letter 'e'- was clearly damn good attempt to spell 'help'_. ' If I had put him back in the solarium and he had written it on the table or if the Hutchinsons' had seen it from this angle'… _Lottridge gulped hard.

The worried doctor struggled with his conscience for the longest time on what to do next. He could claim that Kenneth had a sudden and miraculous recovery… but no. Kenneth would – in a fairly short period of time- be able to tell everyone the truth. Meaning the end to the Van Hall Institute and likely jail time for him, Robert clenched his fists. He couldn't have that, not after all the work and sacrifices he'd made to get this far.

He could arrange for young Hutchinson to have a serious or perhaps fatal 'accident'… but that might make the Institute look bad. Lottridge shook his head. That wouldn't work either. After running the different scenarios through his head, Robert knew that there was only one avenue open to him. Stay his course. Of course he'd have to up the young man's medications or even change them. He would have to be careful though. The younger Hutchinson could not appear –at least while his parents were around- that he was being drugged.

So that meant a definite increase in the time Kenneth spent in the isolation float tank. Sensory depravation did wonders for making the most of obstinate of patients quite pliable. That plan in mind, the doctor turned on his heel and left the room.

XXXX

_Float tank room, days later_

The latch was unclipped from the hasp of the float tank and the lid was lifted, exposing the bound and naked form within.

Doris looked down at the wet, bedraggled patient as she prepared to help Nurse Kevin Ryder lift him from the float tank. Since she was a recently hired nurse, this wasn't her normal duty or station. She'd never been down in the gray room before. But Mark, the young black man who was usually scheduled with big Kevin, was sick today.

The patient's light colored hair was plastered to his head. There was a thin white crust of salt ringing his face where the waterline of the tank would be. She thought it was nearly as strange as the black mask that hid his eyes and bisected his face and the restraints that bound his wrists and ankles. Doris opened her mouth to ask her coworker, but changed her mind. This could be one of those innovative treatments that made this new facility one of the best in the country. There were charity cases here as well as patients whose well-to-do families were paying a great deal of money for the cutting edge therapies for the brain injured that were provided at the Van Hall Institute.

She snaked one hand under the patient's arm, just below his armpit to help in lifting him out of the tank. The man startled weakly –apparently at the unexpected feel of their hands on him as they pulled him to a seated position before easing him out of the tank. She held the shivering figure upright while Ryder moved the gurney closer.

A pang of pity hit her and she was confused by the blindfold, so she reached around to the side and began to remove it.

"Leave it on." Kevin snapped.

"Why does he have one on? It's pitch black in the tank. It doesn't make sense to-"

"Doctor's orders." He cut her off and shot her a pointed look. "Now shut up, we're supposed to be quite around this one. He gets, uh… quite excitable when it comes to voices and sounds." Jerking his chin at her prompted the older woman to clamp her lips in a firm, thin line. Together they lifted and put the patient on the gurney, strapped him down and covered the naked body with some blankets.

As they pushed the patiet down the gray hall to the elevator, Doris again reached for the blindfold.

"I said leave it on." He slapped at her hand.

Affronted, she drew herself up to her full height and made direct eye contact. "Why? I don't think-"

"Look Doris, you ain't been here very long, so I'll fill you in. You ain't bein' paid to think. You're bein' paid to do _what_ you're told and _when_ you're told to do it. I'm in charge around here. Right after the doc, of course." He raised an eyebrow.

The figure on the gurney shivered. Doris briefly patted the trembling shoulder and adjusted the blanket, attempting a little comfort. The man jerked at the slight contact. Even though she was a nurse and had been one for nearly thirty years, she had never been a touchy-feely person. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the young man, this was certainly a strange treatment, then again this was a whole new medical field for her, she knew she had a lot to learn.

She did know one thing though; Ryder wasn't done lording his position and seniority over her.

Kevin gave her an evil smile. "Got me? Now zip it." He dragged his index and thumb across his lips like he was pulling a zipper closed.

She bit her lip and mentally bit her tongue. '_Yeah, I got you all right.'_ While it rankled her to obey the younger man, she kept her piece and did just that. After all, she wasn't getting any younger and she enjoyed living indoors and eating on a regular basis, so she did as Ryder suggested and zipped her lips. This wasn't the first time she'd turned a blind eye to strange things goings on in a care facility.

XXXX

_Bay City, weeks later_

Starsky staggered out of the bar, his once normal grace was gone. His damn crutches had developed minds of their own. Tomorrow –finally- the much-hated cast would come off. "It'll be cashed off. I'll cashed off the cashed off." The brunet slurred, snickering to himself, only to stop when the rude sidewalk pitched him abruptly into the side of the building. He hadn't meant to get this stinking' drunk though. One drink had led to another and another and… Starsky pushed off the building.

After ten weeks of clomping around and taking sponge baths, he would -at last- be able to take a real bath –scratch that- a shower. He would take a shower, a nice, hot soaking shower. Part of his brain told him not to go out tonight, but he just couldn't take the confinement any longer. He'd been going stir-crazy in his apartment waiting for tomorrow to come. So he took a cab to this bar a few blocks from his apartment. It wasn't one he normally visited. He'd started out with some vague idea of finding some chick to bed but ended up drowning his sorrows instead.

He spotted a cab and flagged it, when he lifted his hand; he dropped his crutch and by the time he'd managed to pick it back up, someone had climbed into the taxi. Starsky attempted this several time and each time, he dropped his crutch and someone always took his cab while he fumbled for it.

"Fuck." He growled as he reached for his wayward crutch for the third time. At this rate it would be dawn by the time he got home. He turned his face to the night sky "Ha, ha… thash real funny God. How 'bout a little help for once, huh?" The last part was half snarled, half laughed. "May ash swell -_hiccup- _walk home." He slurred. He'd made it one block and was about to swing off the curb into the crosswalk when he felt some thing grab him low around his right leg.

Starsky peered down to see a filth-encrusted bulldog humping his leg. He stared stupidly at it as it grunted and panted in obvious pleasure. The brunet blinked as it sunk into his beer-soaked brain that he should do something about it. "Hey! Shop -_hiccup-_ Stop that!"

He shook his leg to remove the dog and lost his precarious balance in the process. "Whoa! Leggo -_ hiccup- _my leg, dammit!" Starsky landed with a thump on the curb of the sidewalk. He'd barely hit the pavement when a car whizzed by dangerously close to his feet that were still in the gutter. The brunet spun them out of the way as quickly as he could.

"Stupid sonofabish! Try drivin' on th' road inshed of th' shide –_hiccup_- shidewalk!" He slurred, shaking his fist as the rapidly departing vehicle.

A little worried about the dog, he looked around for it.

The pooch was sitting on its butt just a few feet away. It squinted its eyes and its enormous pink tongue lolled out the side of its mouth as the jaws gaped widely. It looked for all the world like it was smiling at him. It even gave a series of snorting pants that sounded suspiciously close to laughter.

Starsky goggled at the comical looking critter. _'Did that thing just save my life?'_ He shook his head at the inane thought. Which promptly sent the world spinning around him. "Nah… Ish gotta be th' –_hiccup-_ beer." He grumbled out loud as he contemplated how to stand up again.

He painstakingly made his way to his feet and braced himself with his crutches. As he did that, it got him to thinking that it was hard enough coordinating ones own legs when drunk, but throw two crutches into the mix? Well, that made it nearly impossible to get around.

A snorted grumble-pant from the dog made him look down. The dog stood up and waddled across the crosswalk, stopping mid way to look back at him before continuing on.

"Alright, ya –_hiccup-_ damn Lassie wanna be, I'm comin'." Starsky rolled his eyes at the graceless hind end of the bulldog, with its tightly curled tail and stiff, waddling walk. He swung his crutches and headed across the street, taking extra care to watch for traffic this time.

It took him nearly an hour to get home and by then he was so tired that instead of attempting the steps to his apartment, the curly haired detective simply made his way to the Torino and got in. He stretched out across the front seat and fell asleep.

XXXX

As Huggy drove to pick Starsky up to take him to the doctor to get his cast removed, the bar owner smiled. The sun was shining brightly and there was a fresh breeze blowing in from the distant bay. It was a beautiful morning in Bay City.

Huggy was sure that his friend had finally coming to grips with what had happened that awful nights so many weeks ago. Ever since Starsky had fallen and broken his cast, his white brother seemed to have come to terms with the fact that it had all been a tragic accident and Hutch was never coming back. The obsessive cleaning had stopped, as had the background checks.

Starsky had begun to heal on the inside. And today the plaster cast would come off.

The good feeling he'd had fled as Huggy pulled into the parking lot and noticed that the Torino's driver's side door was wide open. One blue sneaker poked along with the foot portion of the leg cast Starsky had on. The thin black man shook his head; instinctively knowing this didn't bode well.

He pulled up next to the bright red car and got out. Looking into the front seat of the Torino, he saw the detective sprawled across the seat, with a very dirty, smelly and incredibly ugly dog half lying across the sleeping detective's chest. He slowly shook his head back and forth. "Starsky m'man, you're taste in girl's is definitely slippin'. This one's a real dog." He chuckled as he reached out and grabbed his friend's shoe.

XXXX

A hand grabbing his foot woke Starsky. He blinked, only to slam his lids shut once more and the sun's rays stabbed painfully deep into his brain. He fumbled around before remembering he had fallen asleep in his car. He smacked his dry lips and ran an equally dry tongue over his teeth. They felt like they had fur growing on them. He made a sour face as he wrapped his arm around the heavy weight on his chest. A rancid odor hit him square in the face.

"What the-" His head split clean in two at those two words and hot vomit rose in the back of his throat. The weight on his chest moved off with a few grunting snorts. Starsky slammed a hand over his mouth and, with Huggy's help managed to spew outside the Torino.

He puked until nothing more came out. Thinking the worst was over, he lifted his head. "Ohgod." The brunet dry heaved helplessly.

"Steady m'man. You got yourself one grade "A" hangover." The thin man patted Starsky consolingly on the shoulder. "Who's your new girlfriend?"

The ill detective cast a blurry eye on Huggy. "My what?"

"You were sleepin' with a dog. Just wonderin' what her name is." The bar owner joked.

"Dog? What dog?… Oh yeah…don't know, just some stray. Hug, my head's splittin'." Starsky squinted at his watch, but the numbers on the face blurred. "What time is it?"

Huggy checked his timepiece. "You've got an hour before your appointment. That's just enough time for you to get cleaned up. Let me help you." He grabbed an arm and tugged.

The brunet accepted Huggy's help. He didn't want to be late for his date to get the damn plaster cast off. He had places to go and some demons in Minnesota to confront.

XXXX

The next day Starsky called Dobey and told him he was headed out of town for a while. He prepaid his and Hutch's rent and utilities for the next two months. Made Huggy promise to care for Hutch's plants, threw some cloths in a duffle, grabbed his cane – which he would have to use for a few weeks yet until his leg completely healed- and got into the Torino.

The brunet's lips thinned into a grim line. The reoccurring nightmare still plagued him when he slept. In his alcohol-induced sleep the night before, he'd recalled Hutch hollering, "Look out!"

Look out for what? Had his friend seen something? Or was it just a reflex shout? Having exhausted –hell, obsessed over – all other avenues, Starsky knew the accident scene was the only thing left to examine. He had to go to the scene of the accident and look around for himself. Though he knew that searching for any clues would be next to impossible this time of year, if he waited any longer, many remaining clues would be washed away in the spring melt.

Besides, he had to see Hutch again. Even if his friend no longer knew him. The brunet worked hard to swallow past the lump in his throat. He rubbed his aching leg. With the cast off –if necessary- he knew he'd be able to disguise himself and slip onto the Hutchinson estate or Van Hall or wherever he needed to go.

No one and nothing would keep him from Hutch's side. Maybe then the nightmares would stop plaguing him.

He'd thought about flying back to Duluth, but decided against it. A long drive was what he needed. After being confined to his apartment for so long, he couldn't stand the thought of being cooped up in a plane, even for a few hours. Besides it would cost more to fly there and rent a car once he got there. Besides he didn't know where he might need to go once he arrived.

But deep down, he had to admit that he simply felt closer to Hutch in the car, like his friend had stepped out, but would be back shortly. He glanced over at the empty passenger seat and rubbed his chest, right over the spot were the unrelenting pain in his heart was located.

XXXX

Starsky drove for long hours as he motored his way to Minnesota, only resting when he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. A few hours of sleep –usually in the Torino- and he was back on the road again.

A couple days later he'd arrived. He wasn't at all certain where Hutch was being held. And knowing it would be exponentially more difficult to get onto the Hutchinson estate, Starsky prepared to gain entry into the Van Hall Institute. The Institute was located roughly 50 miles south west of Duluth on Interstate 35, near the Town of Moose Lake.

As he stared at the imposing main building of the Van Hall Institute, Starsky thought back to the day after he had fallen out of bed and re-injured his leg. He'd been cleaning up the Lancet magazines he'd tossed about the night before, when he had noticed the ad for help wanted at the Van Hall Institute. An idea crawled into his brain and grew. Orderlies and nurses were needed. That had set his mind to thinking of a way to gain entry into that place. Waiting for his cast to be removed had been the hardest part of his plan and now at long last here he was, standing outside the building.

The Hutchinsons had been incredibly stingy with the information they gave Captain Dobey. This whole trip could be a colossal waste of time since he wasn't even sure if Hutch was even in there. From his motel room, Starsky had called Van Hall to see if there were still job openings. Luck was with him, there was. He made the appointment for the interview and now here he was. He carefully tamped down his excitement and limped his way into the building.

Cane in hand, he followed the directions that the receptionist gave him. He rounded a corner and bumped into a large older woman. "Oh, excuse me, I'm sorry-" Starsky's voice trailed off as he found himself staring at the very familiar face of Nurse Doris Bycroft -the once head nurse from the Cabrillo State Mental institution.

The older woman paled when she recognized him.

"What are you doin' here?" Starsky gasped, startled to see her and _here_ of all places. As a part of her plea agreement –in addition to her testifying against Doctor Matwick- she was not supposed to be working in the health field any more.

"Not here. Not now." She whispered and her eyes darted about, checking to see if anyone else near. Speaking a little louder, she continued. "Nearest gas station? Here, let me draw you a map." Pulling a note pad from her pocket, she jotted something down and handed the paper to him. She then beat a hasty retreat.

After she was gone, Starsky looked down at the paper and read it. Along with a meeting place and time were the words:

_Hutch is missing_.

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

Hi All,

Sorry for the long delay in updating this story. My muse took an extended hiatus and finally returned just the other day. Thank you for your patience and continued interest in this story. I hope this chapter is worth the long wait and I hope you don't have to wait that long ever again for an update. _(Fingers crossed)_

**Chapter 11**

Van Hall Institute

'_Hutch is missing'_

Starsky read the words again and felt as if ice water had been dumped on him, his mind raced and he leaned against the wall for support. What had happened to Hutch? Had he been moved from Van Hall to somewhere else? Had Bycroft had assisted him somehow? Or had Hutch simply wandered off alone into the cold Minnesota winter? But what if Hutch had been kidnapped? Her note has simply stated 'Hutch is missing'. So few words, so many possible –and negative- outcomes to those words.

Pulling out of his inner thoughts, Starsky looked for Bycroft, but she was far down the hall away from him, her heels made a rapid tic-tac as she beat a hasty retreat.

He regained his composure and surreptitiously looked around to see if anyone had witnessed his momentary lapse. Starsky limped back to the reception desk and told the lady there that he didn't feel well enough to be interviewed today. One look at his face and she readily believed him. He left without further comment.

XXXX

_Hours later_

Starsky disinterestedly flipped through the menu of the bar and grill with the mildly amusing name of 'The Duck-Inn'. He shook his head as he looked out the large window for what had to be the hundredth time. He checked his watch, then checked the wall clock. Nurse Bycroft was over an hour late for their meeting. He anxiously drummed his fingers on the table. '_Where the hell is she?' _He thought as he glanced at the note she'd scribbled to him at Van Hall, thus assuring himself that this was the correct place and well past the correct time.

"Top off your coffee?"

"What? Uh, no, no thanks." He'd been too distracted to notice the approach of the waitress and he barely paid her any mind now.

"Gonna order anything or are ya still waitin' on your friend?" She clicked her pen, preparing to write down his order.

Starsky sighed, eyes glued to the view outside. "Yeah, still waitin'."

The disappointed waitress clicked her pen again and strolled way.

The curly haired detective knew he'd be here until Bycroft arrived or they kicked him out so they could close the place. Having dated a few nurses in his time, he knew that sometimes they had to work double shifts and that was likely the reason she was late. He needed to find out what she knew about Hutch. He returned his gaze to the picture window and watched as a squad rolled slowly through the parking lot. There weren't many vehicles out there now, earlier there had been but it was a weeknight and most of the patrons had eaten and left, a few -such as himself- lingered on.

A police car rolling into the lot and parked next to the Torino, the officers got out and strolled into the building.

They stood in the doorway, squinting as their eyes had to adjust to the light, looked around. "Who's the owner of that Torino out there?" The heftier of the two officers asked.

Starsky looked up, but hesitated responding. He had a feeling that they weren't asking because they admired it. He was about to reply when the waitress pointed him out.

"It's his."

The brunet grabbed his cane and carefully stood up to address them. "Yeah, it's mine. Why'dya wanna know?" He worked at keeping his tone friendly, not wanting any trouble with the local police.

"Come with us, please." The pudgy officer said.

"Why?" Starsky drew the word out, apprehensive about this turn of events. He mentally quickly did a run down on what he'd done that day to see if he had broken any laws. He hadn't, as far as he knew. '_Well, except for entering the hospital under a false name…'_

"We can discuss it at the station, sir." The cop spoke as if the brunet was slow on the uptake.

"We can discuss it here, Andy. Or are you Barney?" Starsky replied just as slowly, his anger rising and the idea of not wanting trouble with the locals disappearing as quickly as it had come. Still, he could have bit his tongue at his own comment. He had the feeling that his mouth had just gotten him into trouble.

"Well since you have such a smart mouth on ya, you can just wait until we get to the station to find out." The pudgy officer smiled and twirled his index finger around in the air, indicating to Starsky to turn around to be handcuffed.

"You're arresting me? You can at least tell me the charge." And as an after thought, added, "Please." The detective struggled to calm himself. He knew it would lead to bigger problems –as in more charges- if he tried to fight them.

"Trespassing, for starters."

Starsky knew exactly what they were referring to, but opted to play dumb in an effort to find out just what they knew. "Trespassing? This is a public area, a bar and grill-"

"A bar and grill? Really, is that what this place is called?" The hefty officer interjected sarcastically. "And yes, trespassing. You were on Van Hall Institute property under a false name and under false pretences." He clicked the cuffs on Starsky's wrists. "I have to thank you for the compliment. I love '_The Andy Griffith Show'_ and Andy was a very smart cop. Especially when it came to pitting his wits against 'big city' cops such as your self. Too bad you weren't _bright_ enough to use a different, less distinctive car during your little escapade. Otherwise, we might still be looking for you."

The other officer chuckled.

Starsky bit his lower lip to keep from saying anything else, even though he desperately wanted to point out that Andy Griffith – from the show- was a fictional TV cop, with several writers behind his wit, he wasn't a real cop at all. But the detective stopped himself. He'd made one colossal error already today and was disinclined to make another. How many times had Hutch bitched to him about the exact same thing? Too many and now it was biting him in the ass. The guy was right. Starsky knew he should've used a rental car or maybe even a cab.

The officer grabbed the Bay City cop by the elbow and assisted him to the waiting squad car.

XXXX

The disgruntled detective was taken to the town hall, which was a combination town hall, post office and police station. He was directed to sit and he complied, sticking his aching left leg out and wishing he could massage the pain away was the arrest report was being laboriously typed out. The small town cop – who Starsky mentally called 'Barney Fife'- clacked away on the ancient typewriter, intent on doing a proper job on the paperwork.

"Where is he? Dammit! I demand to see him. NOW!"

Startled by the shouting, Starsky sat up straighter in the wooden chair he was sitting on. He knew that voice and he was not looking forward to the confrontation that was about to take place with Richard Hutchinson. The Bay City detective slowly got to his feet and leaned his hip against the desk to prop himself up. He didn't want to be sitting down when Hutch's father confronted him. He once more cursed himself as a fool for driving the Torino to Van Hall.

"He's in here, isn't he?" Richard's fist pounded on the door. "Where. Is. He?" Each word was carefully enunciated.

"Mr. Hutchinson –please- calm down. We haven't finished our preliminary-"

The door burst open and Richard Hutchinson stomped his way over to Starsky. "Where is he? What have you done to my son!?" The tall older man reached out to grab the handcuffed detective.

'Barney' –whose real name was Edger and the slightly younger of the two Moose Lake officers- stepped forward and fended off the grab, "Mr. Hutchinson, please calm down. We've only just started to-"

"I don't care what you've started to do. Whatever it is, I'm going to finish it." The elder Hutchinson changed his angle and made another attempt to grab Starsky. "Where is Kenneth?"

"I don't know where he is." Starsky stated honestly. He didn't know. Bycroft knew that Hutch was missing –according to her note. But that didn't mean she knew anything more. But she must, otherwise why arrange a meeting? That's why he'd been waiting for her. And since he didn't know what she was going to say, he wasn't going to implicate Bycroft. He'd keep that information to himself, at least for now.

If Richard didn't know where Hutch was –and Starsky was sure he didn't. There simply was no way that the older man was not faking his anger and concern for his son. Maybe the old man wasn't such a miserable bastard after all.

Richard faked a move to the right and went left, out maneuvering Officer Edger. He grabbed Starsky and roughly jerked him close, attempting to use his six foot four inches of height to intimidate the shorter, younger man. "How long have you been planning this, huh? What is this sick fascination you have with my boy? You've been nothing but a bad influence on Kenneth since the day you met and now you've kidnapped him!"

"The HELL I did!" The detective felt his teeth rattle with the hard shakes the senior Hutchinson gave him. He fought for his balance as his still healing left leg gave out. He gritted though the wave of pain the forceful shaking was reawakening there, his anger overrode his physical pain. "And it's NOT sick! We're friends – don't you understand the concept? Though that might be difficult considering you've obviously never had any _real_ friends in your life! I came back because –restraining order or not- Hutch is my friend and I want to help him-"

"You call kidnapping him _helping_?" The older man backhanded Starsky, the forceful blow made the curly haired cop bounce off the desk and –having his hands cuffed behind him, had no way to break his fall and he landed in a heap on the floor.

The elder Hutchinson leaned in and shook his index finger in the fallen detective's face. "You call sabotaging your nurse's accomplice of yours car _helping_? First you're responsible for the damage my boy suffered and now you're responsible for his disappearance. And now you are going to pay for your crimes."

"NO! I haven't committed any crime! I didn't get to see Hutch. I went to Van Hall looking for him. I admit that. But I didn't know he's missing!" Starsky lurched forward, struggling to get his legs under him and get back to his feet. "And I certainly didn't try to hurt Nurse Bycroft. She might be the only one that may know what's happened to him. She was going to meet me at the Duck-Inn and tell me… something. Something else is going on here-"

Richard grabbed the front of his shirt and hissed in Starsky's face. "Bullshit and lies. I'm betting what really happened was that you had her help you kidnap my boy and then you attempted to eliminate her by cutting her brake lines. You're going to spend as much time behind bars as legally possible. But first, you're going to tell me where my son is and you're going to do it now. Once I get him back, and if the nurse lives, I'll see you get decades behind bars. But if you don't and my son and that nurse die, you'll be up for murder. And I'll make certain that you never see the light of day again."

XXXX

_1 day earlier…_

Hutch sat in the cold little building surrounded by tools and some machines used to cut the green stuff and push the white stuff around. His teeth clicked loudly together as he hugged himself, trying to keep warm while he waited. He tugged at the thick knit hat on his head.

This was the first time he'd been _out_ since being brought _here_ from Mah-mah's and Stern-face's home. At least it was the first time he _remembered _being _out_. He wasn't supposed to be _out _though. It felt good, but still, if he were caught it would mean big trouble for him and for nurse Dor-ris.

Every little sound made him startle in near panic, fearful that White-coat or Burly had found him. That they would jump out and grab him, drag him back into the big building and make him stay there forever.

Still, a part of him wanted to go _back_. And that thought thoroughly frightened him. He clutched himself at the notion, his reluctant right arm flexed weakly, but Hutch didn't notice.

_Out_ though… He shivered again, but this time, not with the cold.

_Out_ was new.

_Out_ was scary. Nearly as scary as _back_.

But, while in the h…h… Hutch hissed through his teeth when the 'h' word refused to show itself. He settled for the word _back. Back_ there, he had slowly begun to lose himself. Bit by bit. He'd stopped fighting them. What was the point, really? He always lost. They always won.

His days in his room were long, lonely and only broken only by trips to the watery bury-you-in and push-plunges. He'd gotten to the point where he almost welcomed the mind numbing routine. The not talking. The not thinking. The not caring.

That was until Dor-ris arrived. She _talked_ to him. Looked him in the eye. Touched him, run her fingers through his hair. She didn't treat him like furniture, like a thing to be moved about, but not spoken to, or listened to. Not that he'd spoken to her yet, since he wasn't completely convinced this wasn't another way to break him down. Like offering food to a tail-wagging-furry, only to kick it when it got too close.

He nervously chewed his lower lip, weighing his options. Stay _Out_, or go _Back_.

_Back_ was warm and regular food. _Back_ meant no thinking, no decisions.

_Back_ - he knew what was expected of him and what to expect from the people around him– usually. And when they put him in the watery bury-you-in, he could see Dark Curls again –in his mind. In that special place, he could go where it was warm, sunny and open. There he would sit next to Dark Curls and watch the sun sink into the big water.

But this was _out._ He'd wanted _out_ for such a long time too. He wanted so very badly to see Dark Curls again that his chest-thump-thing ached with the wanting. Liquid burned in his see-ers. He batted it away, wiping it on the sleeve of coat. Only if he were _out_ could he hope to find the real Dark Curls. But sometimes in the darkest and loneliest hours of the night he wondered if his friend might be dead. There had to be a reason that his curly haired friend never came to visit.

No. He wouldn't believe it. Something was keeping Dark Curls from coming, only his befuddled mind couldn't figure out what.

He tightened his grip on the heavy, large coat Dor-ris had given him and fingered his newly darkened hair under the hat. It was now a dirty dish water color, not the bright, sun color it had been. Dor-ris had done that. Had given him the items he had on now, hid him in a wheeled-push-dirty-clothes-around and got him outside. Once there, she'd led him to this little building and gave him a container of water and a small bag with fruit, bread and meat things to munch on. She'd made him understand that she wanted him to stay here until she came back. But now it was dark and she still wasn't back.

The door remained closed. He got up and limped around the little room, trying to keep warm. Dor-ris had said to wait here. Well, he thought that's what he thought she'd said. Hutch had taken a big chance in trusting her. It had taken him a long time to begin to hope once more and now he was starting to think that maybe he'd been tricked - again. He stared at the closed door. It wasn't locked. He'd checked right after she left, just in case.

He walked over to it and peeked out. White stuff was falling from the darkened sky. Reminding him of something…

It slowly dawned on him. It reminded him of the last time he'd clearly remembered seeing Dark Curls. The white stuff… a car… a winding… path. Rapid movement, a flash, a shout and… and… Hutch's heart pounded in his chest and he felt a deep ache that wouldn't go away. His friend wasn't _here_ and that was _wrong. _His whole being told him that Dark Curls should be _here_. Helping him.

Unless…

Unless something happened… perhaps something was keeping him away. Like if he were dead. Put in a bury-you-in and stuck in the ground. The blond quaked at the thought, but couldn't make himself believe it though. It didn't _feel_ right.

But what if Dark Curls had seen him when he was worse? When he had water-from-mouth? Maybe he didn't know –like Mah-mah and Stern-faced – didn't know that Hutch was better now? That might keep Dark Curls away. But somehow that didn't feel _right_ either.

That meant just one thing.

Hutch would have to go find him. Mah-mah and Stern-faced didn't listen, wouldn't help. They only watched him from a distance now and never from in the same room any more. But Dark Curls would listen. The best part was that they could talk with out words. Just looks, emotions or a small touch. That was all they needed.

The blond blew on his hands to warm them as an idea formed in his head. He should go look for Dark Curls. Find him and… and … he wouldn't be alone any more. His friend would never send him _back_. He wouldn't need words to convince Dark Curls of that.

Hutch cautiously stepped out into the white stuff and shivered as the cold wind ruffled his hair and fluttered his heavy coat. He hobbled slowly toward the arched metal swing-open and by the cars. What to do now? Fearfully, he glanced back at the building. He would be in so much trouble if the caught him _out_. A vehicle drove by him. He watched it disappear into the falling white stuff and darkness.

He spotted a metal box on a short wooden pole and leaned on it, lightly panting for breath. It had taken a lot of energy just to get this far. He wasn't used to walking anywhere near this distance. Plus his right leg still was not moving like it should and most of the time he had to drag it awkwardly.

Hutch balled up his fist and hit the nearly useless limb in frustration. Another car went by. The blond knew he needed a ride to get anywhere. Especially if he didn't want to end upgoing _back_. A ride would also be warm. But riding with a stranger was scary. Bad things could happen. He looked towards the direction of the building.

He wondered if _out_ wasn't as dangerous and freighting as _back_.

If he went _back_, he knew he'd be turned into living furniture and lose himself -forever.

A big vehicle drove passed him. Hutch tried to remember how to get a ride. Talking was out. Everyone looked at him funny or ignored him when he tried.

As he pondered his problem, he played with the red thing on the side of the metal-box-on-post, flipping it up and down. The red thing was a signal one made to get someone to stop. He knew that this was a signal to get the bills-and-papers delivery person to stop and take bills away with him. He raised the red square up and pushed it back down.

A signal.

He didn't need words with a signal. The answer came to him and a small smile wavered cautiously on his lips as he put his left hand out at the next car that came down the road and lifted his thumb. The car stopped and he slowly climbed in.

"Whereugoin'?" The man asked.

The words ran together and he could make no sense of them. It was a question. Hutch knew it was from the tone and the way the man's voice rose slightly at the end of the words. But he couldn't force a response out and his face contorted with the effort.

The driver gave him a concerned look and shifted uneasily in the seat. "Dontwannotrouble."

Hutch spotted a colorful, folded paper direction-finder on the seat next to him. He gave a small smile and pointed at the big black **W** on the four-point star labeled with **N, E, S** and **W** on the front. He patted his throat and tapped on the **W**, hoping the man would figure out what he meant and not toss him from the car.

"Ohcanttalkhuhalrighticantalkenoughforthebothofus."

Hutch didn't understand a single word. But the tone was one of understanding and the man put the car in gear and they pulled away. He breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be on his way in a warm car and he looked out of the window at the falling white stuff, the driver's voice droned on and on until the man repeated one word.

"West."

The blond turned to look at the driver, cocking his head slightly to the side. He'd understood that word. Not knowing how else to respond and needing the ride, he nodded. The guy smiled at him and jabbered on. Hutch let the words wash over him as he clung to the one word he'd understood.

West.

Toward the place where it was warm, where the sun sank into the big water. The place where he and Dark Curls lived. Hutch smiled and nodded as the man continued to babble at him, he'd do nearly anything to extend the ride and was happy that he now had a plan and a direction.

West.

Yes, that's where he wanted to go, and life would be much better once he got there.

West.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

So sorry for the incredibly looooong delay in posting. RL has been a pain and left me with no desire to write –anything- for a long time. It took me forever to get this chapter done. I only hope I can keep cranking out the chapters until it's done. _(fingers crossed!)_

I'd like to thank those of you who are still interested enough to keep asking about this story. Big thanks to Kreek and Eli for their encouragement and comments. Bigger thanks to Pony, who should get some kind of trophy or certificate for patience in waiting for this story to be written.

_The last chapter left off with Starsky being blamed for Bycroft's car accident and tossed into a small local jail where the senior Hutchins thought he had something to do with Hutch's disappearance. Hutch was left getting into a stranger's car after Bycroft had helped him escape the Van Hall Institute and Dr. Robert Lottridge's clutches…_

West

**Chapter 12**

In a moment of pure frustration, Starsky slammed a fist into the concrete wall of his cell. Both Hutch and Bycroft were in danger. Stuck in jail, with his partner missing and Bycroft in the hospital in critical condition, he was at his wits end. _If I could just get 'em to listen to reason..._ He snorted derisively. _As if that was gonna happen any time soon with Senior Hutchinson tossing his considerable clout around_. The detective knew he'd be old and gray before that pigheaded SOB would listen to _him_.

If he couldn't find anyone to listen, Hutch might never be found. The curly haired detective swallowed hard at that notion.

And Bycroft would most certainly be dead -if she wasn't already. He shook his head and gritted his teeth at the pain that resided in his jaw and tenderly palpated it with his fingers. There was some swelling. Old man Hutchinson had one hell of a backhand for such an old coot. The resulting fall he'd taken, didn't help matters either, his leg ached liked a blue bitch.

Frustrated and exhausted, Starsky limped to the hard cot and sat boneless onto the edge of it. The weight of his worries forced his head down and he scrubbed his face with his hands. _Damn I'm tired. Tired of being in pain. Tired, tired of not being heard._ _And oh so tired of missing Hutch. _

He couldn't put into words how much he ached to see his friend again. It was like a big chunk of him was missing. A chunk no one else could see, but that didn't make it any less absent Now to know he had be so close, only to have more doors slam in his face…

Exhausted, Starsky flopped backwards and put an arm over his eyes. He knew he wouldn't be getting any sleep, not with the lives of two people at stake. He heard the squeak and whoosh of the door that separated the jail from the office. Starsky didn't bother looking to see who'd entered, figuring it was one of the local cops about to pester him with food, water or confessing to some crime he didn't commit.

"Detective? Detective Starsky?"

The tentative voice was female and familiar, but it was not enough to make him take his arm away from his eyes. "Yeah?" He grunted disinterestedly.

"Please, I've come to beg you to tell us were Kenneth is. He needs to be back in the institute." Elizabeth Hutchinson cleared her throat before continuing. "He- he can't function outside of it… yet. Please, tell me that there is someone with him."

Starsky pulled his arm down and glumly stared up at the ceiling before quietly replying, "You don't have to beg. And I can't tell you where he is." _God, I'm sick of saying that and having no one believe me. _

"Can't or won't?" The slight quaver in her voice quickly hardened.

"Can't. But only because I don't know where he is or what's happened to him. I wish to God I did know." The detective turned his head and sized up the woman that had given birth to his best friend. The way he figured it, she didn't deserve to be called 'mother'. Still, she did seem concerned. He gave her an assessing look. Her clothing and hair were immaculate –as always. Her graying blonde locks were in their usual tidy bun, not a strand out of place and not a single wrinkle in her clothes, either.

_Her hair must be shellacked and_ s_he must almost never sit down_. Starsky snorted the notion before forging ahead. "I think Nurse Bycroft may know where he is. Or at the very least what's happened to him."

"They said that she's _your_ accomplice," Mrs. Hutchinson's hands fluttered about like startled birds as she spoke, "and that you tried to kill her to keep her quiet." The woman glared at him.

"Don't believe everything you hear. I'm sure she knows something about Hutch and she was going to tell me. That's why I was waiting for her at that bar."

"What does she know?"

Starsky eased his bum leg over the edge, slid off the cot and carefully got to his feet. "I don't know. But _she_ obviously knows _something _and because of that, she-"

"No!" Elizabeth shook her head in short, agitated shakes as she cut him off. "My husband said that she's a criminal and you helped her get a lighter sentence."

Feeling his blood pressure rise, Starsky exhaled slowly and mentally counted to ten, attempting to calm down. Exploding wouldn't help anyone right now. "There were mitigating circumstances. She saved my life back in Bay City. And by saving me, I was able to save your son. Without her help, both Hutch and I would have been murdered while we were undercover at Cabrillo. That's what we told the judge. Bycroft's crash today wasn't an accident, and contrary to what your husband and the locals think, I had _nothing_ to do with it. She's the only one who might shed some light on this mess. I wouldn't hurt her. I need her and any information she has."

"How come I never heard of this before? You're lying!" She stomped a foot petulantly, then blushed, as though she were embarrassed to have shown any emotion.

"And you ain't listening." He barked back at her. "There's something going on here, something big, something that has to do with the Institute and Hutch, I think." Starsky shook his head. "All I know for sure is that someone wants to silence Bycroft and frame me for it. They've tried to kill her once and I think they're gonna try again, to finish the job. They're gonna succeed unless we stop them." Starsky limped across the small space to the bars and wrapped his fingers tightly around two of them, locked his eyes on hers. "You need to tell them to put a guard on that Bycroft. She's our only hope of getting any information about Hutch."

Starsky watched Mrs. Hutchinson as she gave thought about what he was saying. He could see some of Hutch in her mannerisms and posture as she processed the information. He willed her to listen. "Please. Look, if I'm lying, you'll know it soon enough. But If I'm right, you'll have helped to save Bycroft's and perhaps your son's as well."

The woman looked him up and down, her face an unreadable mask. Without further comment, she turned on a heel and exited the cell area, leaving the curly haired detective wondering whether she was going to help or not.

Disheartened, Starsky turned to look out the small barred window, he noticed it was snowing hard outside and occasionally gusts of wind would smack harder snow crystals against the glass. Even though he was warm enough in his cell, the detective couldn't help but shiver at the sight.

Nor could he help but wonder –and worry- if Hutch might be lost somewhere out in that same snowstorm.

XXXX

Nausea and pressure in his bladder woke Hutch. He was confused about where he was for several minutes. He thought, at first that he might be in the watery bury-you-in, but soon realized he wasn't. The bury-you-in didn't move. He then remembered getting into Talks a Lot's car. The blond released a long sigh of relief. His bladder nagged at him and he shifted in uncomfortably in the passenger seat of his host's car. Hutch knew he'd need to _go_ soon. He looked out the window and saw a whiteout of falling white stuff.

Talks a Lot briefly glanced at him before returning his concentration to the road ahead and spoke. "Gottastoptoohardtodriveanymorewithallthissnowheylookatruckstop."

The words were just a stream of nonsense sounds to Hutch, and just as he'd done a hundred times since getting into the car, he nodded. His head throbbed, vying for attention. He could feel the car shifting beneath him as its momentum was slowed by the drifts. He turned his gaze out the window. It didn't help. The swirling white only made him feel sick and confused. He wrapped his arms around his stomach as a pain sliced through him. Resting his warm forehead against the cold glass, the blond slipped into an uneasy doze.

A tap on his arm woke him some time later and they pulled into an area that was well lit, or would have been, if it weren't for the heavily falling whiteness, which reminded him of… another time. Hutch's brows furrowed in concentration, but the notion evaporated as Talks A Lot's yammering interrupted his thought process.

"Herewegogonnastopuntilitletsupandplowscleartheroadslookslikeothershavethesameidea"

The nonsensical yammering stopped and noting how his driver looked about, Hutch did the same. Through the obscuring white swirls, he could barely make out other vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Some were covered with more white stuff than the others.

They entered the building together, Talks supported Hutch by one arm, helping him through the deep white stuff. The blond was nervous, but the smell of food was enticing despite his aching head. His hungry place rumbled. He rubbed it absently, he really needed to _go_. Now.

He looked about. There were a lot of people in here. More people than he'd seen in a long while. Too many things were going on, it was a blizzard of sound, smells and actions. Hutch shivered a little, his gut churned and his head throbbed. He was feeling sick again. He took a step backwards and another, until his back hit the door.

Talks a Lot gave him a concerned look.

Hutch gave him a little smile and glanced around. There would be a place in here for him to _go_. The familiar sound of rushing water caught his attention and keeping a hand on the wall to support himself, he slowly limped towards the sound. One door opened and a woman stated to exit.

He caught the edge and stopped it from closing and stepped forward.

The woman gave him a sharp look and blocked his path, babbling at him.

Hutch couldn't hide his confusion.

She babbled again and sharply stabbed at a sign on the door with one of her fingers.

Not quite knowing how to respond to what she was saying, he stepped back and nodded, holding his wrong hand out before him, palm out.

The woman snorted, shook her head and muttered under her breath as she made her way back to the packed main dining area.

Still confused the tall blond grimaced, feeling the pressure. The urge to _go_ was getting stronger.

A man in a uniform made his way down the hall and brushed by Hutch as he entered the door across from the one the woman had exited. He stared after the man, allowing the door to close as thoughts rushed through his brain. The uniform was… was… similar to, to… something. It was familiar and gave Hutch comfortable feeling. He'd seen many, had been around people who wore them. It brought up a rightness -and mostly- positive things. Safe things.

Dark Curl's face popped unexpectedly to the forefront of his mind and just as quickly disappeared. Hutch realized with a start that he, Dark Curls and uniforms went together. Sort of, the picture wasn't quite right, but still… the memory was there, lurking.

Breath hissed from between clenched teeth as the images blurred. He reluctantly let them go.

For now.

He pushed on the door and entered. The smell of the room was familiar, and so were the white objects lining the wall for were for washing hands. Above those were reflection givers. There were a couple of small stalls that had swirly flushes hidden behind doors. On the other wall were… the word escaped him, they weren't … swirly flushes… but he knew what they were for. He stepped up to one next the uniformed man.

Hutch looked into the small basin and saw a pink disk that gave off a flowery scent. The combination of the flower and the waste smell made his nose twitch in disgust. He was now certain he was in the right place. As to how to proceed was his major concern. He knew that he had done this many times, long ago. But he had fasteners on the cloth that covered his lower half.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture how to do it in his head. His faulty brain skittered all around the subject, never landing on the solution. He nearly groaned in frustration. An idea popped into his head and opened his eyes and peeked at his neighbor to see how it was done.

Fixing his eyes on the man's hands, Hutch struggled to copy his moves. Only his fingers fumbled with the seemingly too small metal object. His bad, weak hand wouldn't cooperate with his wrong hand. He groaned softly in frustration as he struggled with the fastener. He groaned softly, _out_ was a very complicated place. Sensing some movement, Hutch looked up to see the uniformed man glaring at him.

"Damnpervwhatdoyouthinkyourlookinat"

Hutch couldn't comprehend the words, but understanding the tone, put his hands up, palms out, the bad hand actually obeying, for once. He remained silent, not wanting to attempt to speak, somehow knowing it would make things worse.

The man tucked himself away, closed his fastener and advanced on Hutch. "Whatsamatterwithyouhuhyoudontgostaringatanothermaninthejohniwantanapology" He poked a finger deep into Hutch's chest.

Not sure how to respond, Hutch shrugged and started to turn, wanting to get away from the man who he'd obviously angered.

"Stupidnutjobgobackwhereyoucamefrom"

_Back_. Hutch's head jerked up in alarm.

Though buried in amongst all those other senseless sounds, that word was clear. The meaning was clear. Back meant more push-plunges. Back meant being put in the watery bury-you-in. Back was the last place he wanted to go.

"Nuh!" Fear drove Hutch to push the uniformed man out of his way and bolt out the door. The man bellowed and yelled as he fell.

Pushing was wrong. Pushing was punished. With the-bury-you in and push-plunges. Fear welled up and Hutch forced his damaged body to move faster than he'd ever been able to before. People were standing and moving in his direction as he entered the main room.

Behind him, the uniformed man bellowed again.

Some people stepped towards Hutch, others backed away. All was confusion. The shouts, babbles and movement frightened him. He shoved his way to the door he and Talks a Lot had entered. He forced himself to keep moving away from the noise and headed into the howling darkness and cold, swirling white stuff.

TBC


End file.
